


Kairkiyc

by biscuitlevitation



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dark, Anakin Skywalker Needs a Hug, Anakin is still a kid here, Canon-Typical Violence, Conditioning, Emotional Manipulation, Inspired by Fanfiction, Lima Syndrome, M/M, Mandalorian Culture, Mandalorian Empire (Star Wars), Mando'a Language (Star Wars), Miscommunication, Misunderstandings, Obi-Wan Kenobi Needs a Hug, Obi-Wan is a POW in a brainwashing program and Anakin was kidnapped just to be clear, POV Multiple, Politics, Self-Esteem Issues, Stockholm Syndrome, Torture, Unhealthy Relationships, Unreliable Narrator, also Mandalorians LOVE kids, and I want him to grow up in a loving environment so he won't go off the deep end this time, bc he's cuter this way, because Anakin Skywalker is a kid that really does take an entire goddamn village, like to an excessive degree, of sand people lol
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-02
Updated: 2020-11-10
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:15:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 21,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23450803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/biscuitlevitation/pseuds/biscuitlevitation
Summary: Mand'alor Jaster Mereel has never put much stock in the integration program. But then he encounters Obi-Wan Kenobi and decides that he would make an excellent Mandalorian… and integrating hisadiikalong with him will make him that much more compliant.As for hisadand heir, Jango Fett... that's where things start to get complicated.
Relationships: Jango Fett & Anakin Skywalker, Jango Fett/Obi-Wan Kenobi, Jaster Mereel & Anakin Skywalker, Jaster Mereel & Jango Fett, Jaster Mereel & Obi-Wan Kenobi, Obi-Wan Kenobi & Anakin Skywalker
Comments: 650
Kudos: 1654
Collections: Anything But Qui-Gon, Favorite Rereads, Integration: The Collection, Star Wars





	1. Obi-Wan & Jaster

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Millberry_5](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Millberry_5/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Integration](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11920878) by [Millberry_5](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Millberry_5/pseuds/Millberry_5). 



> A fanfic of Millberry_5's excellent _Integration._ I saw that this sandbox had an open to the public sign and went hog wild. If this is even half as good as the original, I would be very surprised indeed.
> 
> Deepest apologies to Jaster Mereel fans, but I have NO idea how to write this character because all I did was read his Wookieepedia entry. Hopefully he's still likable?? I figured Jango wouldn't have been Mand'alor yet and I want Obi-Wan to have an overbearing father-in-law who embarrasses his kid in front of his hot new jetii squeeze.
> 
> Some OCs of Millberry_5's will also be appearing, so I hope I can at least do them justice. Especially Suki, as she's my favorite non-youngling OC but most of them aren't even born yet ;-; this is set 2 years into Anakin's apprenticeship with Obi-Wan btw
> 
>  _Kairkiyc_ \- desperate heart; a feeling, to love something or someone with such desperation or so intensely that to be without them for even a moment causes intense distress, or physical pain

“Master… Master!” Anakin whispered, tugging insistently at the back of his robe.

Obi-Wan sighed, tamping down the impulse to snap at his unruly padawan. At eleven, Anakin was toeing the line between being adorably precocious and a little hellion. It was vastly preferable to the angry, scared child who had regarded him with such suspicion in the first few months after he had taken him on, but there were times that Obi-Wan wished his student was a little better behaved.

For example, right _now_ , when he was in the middle of a holocall to the Jedi council.

“Apologies, Master Poof,” Obi-Wan said, cringing when he saw the annoyed arch of his long neck, even if his expression did not change. He recognized it from the many, many meetings during his own apprenticeship when Master Qui-Gon decided to attribute yet another mission gone spectacularly sideways to the will of the Force. “My padawan has brought an urgent issue to my attention, so if you’ll excuse me just a second…”

“And what issue is that?” Master Windu asked, looking thoroughly unimpressed even through the grainy blue filter of the holodisk. Obi-Wan felt Anakin tense behind him. His padawan was convinced that everyone on the council disliked him personally. Obi-Wan had told him repeatedly that they were simply wary of the circumstances in which Anakin had arrived at the Order, but he conceded that the masters’ solemn, dour attitudes towards the boy likely didn’t help the situation.

“He hasn’t had the chance to tell me, but I know he wouldn’t interrupt unless it was important,” Obi-Wan said firmly. That was true, from a certain point of view, though more because Anakin was so dedicated in his efforts to avoid the Councilmembers than because he was at all reluctant to interrupt whatever his master was doing at any given moment.

“Go with the boy, you may. Not urgent, your report is, yes?” Yoda asked, twitching his ears in amusement.

“I feel that there is nothing pressing that I have not already shared,” Obi-Wan confirmed with a nod. As his padawan had not yet hit his teens, and had been training for less than two years, they were given the lowest-risk missions possible. Anakin, predictably, was not a fan. He often complained that the most he used his lightsaber for was swatting flies, to which Obi-Wan told him he shouldn’t be using it without direct supervision _anyway,_ at which point Anakin would be derailed into whinging about that, instead.

“Dismissed you are, for now.” 

“Thank you, Master Yoda,” Obi-Wan said, bowing deeply even as Anakin tried to pull him back up, not wanting to appear in the holocall. The signal cut off, and he turned around, frowning when he saw his padawan’s excited, slightly nervous expression. “What’s wrong, padawan?”

“There’s a really weird ship showing up on the radar! I’ve never seen one like it before,” Anakin said excitedly, and began tugging Obi-Wan into the cockpit. “Maybe it’s pirates! Do you think it’s pirates?”

(Anakin had eavesdropped on one of Obi-Wan and Quinlan’s drunken debates about who’d had the worst missions. Obi-Wan, who had once been stranded on a moon with both Representative Binks and First Mate Hondo Ohnaka, had won that little argument tidily. Anakin had been pestering him to pay Ohnaka a visit ever since, as the Weequay had generously offered to host him on his ship as thanks for not beheading him after he nearly killed their Gungan companion for dropping his credit chip in a sarlacc pit. Obi-Wan did not ever intend to take him up on it, not least because Ohnaka had already drugged him twice and openly admitted he planned on doing it again.)

“I doubt it’s a pirate ship, Anakin, I told you that this sector is primarily made up of agricultural worlds,” Obi-Wan lectured, knowing that his words were going in one ear and out the other. He dropped into the pilot’s seat, ignoring Anakin’s pout because he was not letting his little pod-racing enthusiast anywhere near the controls, and pulled up the radar readouts.

And blinked, because there was a Mandalorian cruiser rapidly approaching the dinky little grain freighter they’d used for their latest relief efforts. It was the oldest piece of junk in the temple hangar and thus the only ship the quartermasters were willing to let his gearhead padawan within a klick of after he’d rigged their last transport to do a celebratory barrel roll whenever it left the atmosphere. It had no guns to speak of, and a bright green Jedi Order insignia painted like a target on its hull.

“Anakin,” Obi-Wan said calmly, “I need you to strap in tightly.”

His padawan, who had gone very quiet when he saw Obi-Wan’s reaction to the radar, scrambled into his chair, and Obi-Wan sent a brief prayer to the Force that he hadn’t messed with _this_ ship no matter how bored he was.

What followed was some of the most difficult flying Obi-Wan had ever done, not least because trying to evade a Mandalorian warship in their grain freighter was like being an asthmatic lothcat trying to outrun a hungry nexu. Anakin whooped when he had to spin to avoid the first potshot, and Obi-Wan didn’t even have the breath to scold him.

Thankfully, their pursuers soon noticed the green insignia signifying that their mission was purely peaceful and relief-based (not to mention the utter lack of return fire, futile though it may have been), and the laser turrets stopped firing, though not before Obi-Wan had to execute some over-the-top evasive maneuvers that a ship like this really shouldn’t be able to perform even in top condition, much less when it was half the age of Master Yoda. Curiously, this was when the cruiser started pursuing them in earnest, though thankfully he could finally get them into hyperspace if he could just flee in a straight line without worrying about getting shot into bits.

Which was what he tried, to no effect. 

“...Anakin,” Obi-Wan said, through gritted teeth, “Why isn’t the hyperdrive online?”

“I was trying to make it better?” Anakin squeaked, real panic entering his voice for the first time.

Obi-Wan breathed out carefully through his nose, knowing that he needed to keep his padawan calm, and sent a burst of serenity and forgiveness through their training bond. “We _will_ discuss that later, but right now I need you to try to reconnect it. Can you do that for me?”

“Yes!” Anakin said, determination flooding from him in waves, and Obi-Wan allowed himself the tiniest spark of pride in his student’s fortitude. 

“Excellent. You do that while I try to evade them. If you feel anyone board, I need you to hide wherever you can.”

Young Force sensitives were valuable, and Anakin triply so. He would not allow his padawan to be enslaved again, though he knew Mandalorians were not fond of the slave trade as a general rule. But he also knew that they hunted Jedi for glory as well as war, and he didn’t want Anakin to witness his master’s death as well as feel it in the Force. He knew firsthand how badly that scarred the soul.

When he felt the ship finally come to a stop, too damn slow to escape the cruiser’s tractor beam no matter how many clever tricks he pulled, he let his eyes slip closed for just a moment. He thought he would have years with Anakin, that he would be able to fulfill his promises to his master and his student both. Instead, he had failed to even keep Anakin safe.

But now was no time to mourn. Obi-Wan released his regrets and sorrow into the Force, and stood. He had a child to defend. 

-

Very little could surprise Jaster Mereel anymore. As Mand’alor of a vast and growing empire for the past 10 years, he’d gained a reputation for being unflappable, not to mention as ramikadyc as a legion of commandos.

So when he went on an expedition to a practically empty Mid Rim sector to plot out a new supply line for a planned invasion of Scarif, he hadn’t so much as blinked at the appearance of a jetii ship.

His soldiers, mostly fresh recruits who had been bored out of their skulls the entire journey, were much more excited to see some action. Soon enough they were firing at the freighter, cheering raucously whenever a laser came close enough to hit. 

Jaster, observing from the bridge, was more interested in the evasive maneuvers the pilot was pulling off in such a shuk’yc ship. Kriffing Force users. But then he saw a bright green jetii symbol, realized that the ship hadn’t attempted to return fire because it couldn’t, and decided to nip things in the bud.

“Gev!” Jaster barked, and the commotion on the bridge came to an instant stop as his commandos snapped to attention. “That’s a relief freighter, not a gunship. Bring it in the old-fashioned way if you want a fight.”

There were some cautious, scattered cheers at the prospect of actually seeing some action. Most of the people on board were young and untried, and thus glory-hungry. Jaster had intended to use this to show them that war was more intelligence-gathering and boredom than actual combat, but there was nothing wrong with letting them cut their teeth on a jetii when one practically landed in their laps.

“”Alor, there might not actually be combatants on board,” murmured Thrava Wrilli, one of his advisors, who had insisted on watching his six even for a simple recon mission. He appreciated the devotion and loyalty of his Weequay friend, but a person could only stay in the main compound on Mand’yaim for so long before they went mad. Besides, he was getting old, and Jango was more than capable of taking over a few of his duties while he was gone. It’s what he was training his ad for, after all. He had seen something in that small, angry foundling so many years ago, and Jango had never failed to meet and exceed even his greatest expectations.

But he could do without his ad following in his advisors’ footsteps and insisting on Jaster having an honor guard wherever he went. He’d even sent Suki Silnyaru, one of his most dedicated, and the one most likely to visit horrific and painful consequences on anyone who tried to harm him. He knew for a _fact_ that Jango would chafe under such treatment, but he was as atin as Jaster, and extremely single-minded when he decided on something. Good traits for a Mand’alor, but less so when Jaster was subjected to them. 

“If it’s a corps member or some other noncombatant we can just interrogate them and let them go,” Jaster decided. The Republic was already spread thin, and if Jaster hadn’t wanted word of their encroachment into this sector of the Middle Rim he wouldn’t have taken a massive golden cruiser. Jaster preferred to leave under-the-table dealings to beings more talented in subterfuge; he was a commando before anything else, and commandos were nothing if not straightforward.

Besides, if they were trying to figure out what Jaster was doing _here_ , they wouldn’t be looking for the stealth team currently cataloging Scarif’s defenses.

Nevertheless, it took several more minutes to actually bring the karking thing in. For a second Jaster was worried they’d lose it in hyperspace, but it appeared that something was wrong with its FTL capabilities. Jaster had a feeling that, had the pilot had a better ship, they might have escaped altogether.

Well, flying was one thing, but how did this jetii fight? Slamming on his buy’ce as he marched to the hangar bay, blood singing in anticipation, Jaster resolved to find out.

There were dozens of Mando’ade streaming into the hangar bay, excitement and bloodlust in the air, readying themselves for when the ship was boarded. Jaster stepped forward, intending to be the first one in on the off chance that there were more than one onboard, but then the port opened and a blur of beige and red sprang out before he came within 20 feet of the ramp. They landed in a crouch, baby-faced and blue-eyed, with a unique shade of bright copper hair. 

“Hello there,” they said, and ignited a kad’au as blue as their eyes.

There was an immediate barrage of blasterfire from commandos with itchy trigger fingers who did not at all expect the di’kut to _leave their ship._ It was tactically unwise, and arrogant as all haran, so not surprising coming from a jetii. Unfortunately, this was the one ship where such a tactic might actually throw his commandos off their game, as the majority of them had little experience in the field. Maybe they’d used some Force nonsense to figure out how green the people on this ship were? Though, granted, taking potshots at them probably gave away more than it should have.

Jaster and Thrava started roaring orders in Mando’a to their disorganized commandos. Jaster refused to lose any of these di’kut’e to karking friendly fire. The jetii was already capitalizing on their disorganization by deflecting their fire back into the crowd, though they refused to budge from their spot in front of the ramp, which made things easier. Most jetii fought like whirlwinds, using their enhanced speed to dart here and there across the battlefield, sowing chaos in the ranks. The hardest part of killing a jetii was pinning them down. But this one was making an easy target of themselves.

They were defending something important.

 _No_ , Jaster realized, _someone._

“ _There’s somebody else onboard! The Jedi is buying them time to fix the ship!_ ” he told Thrava, and the pair of them instantly switched their strategy. Thrava took to the air of the hangar with the few others who had thought to wear their jetpacks, Suki he ordered to circle around the side to board the ship from the airlock instead of the ramp, and Jaster kept up a continuous stream of blaster fire from his rifle. 

The jetii was clearly getting desperate at the three-pronged assault, deflecting blaster fire from two sides back at Suki’s party, who were obviously attempting to flank them. Their kad’au was a halo of light around them, and their arms were moving so fast Jaster could barely see them. Suki and her team were pinned against the wall by the deflected blaster fire, and no matter what angle of attack Thrava and her airborne squad took their saber was there to meet it. They could’ve waited the jetii out, but time wasn’t something they could afford to waste with the other jetii in the ship. Someone had to break the stalemate.

Unbidden, Jaster felt a fierce grin split his face. Face-to-face combat was where he thrived, and he’d had to sacrifice that in recent years in favor of long-lasting flanking maneuvers and dogfights. It had been even longer since he faced such a capable opponent. Who was this jetii? Why wasn’t the Republic making better use of them? They were wasted on grain transport.

No matter. The Republic’s idiocy was the Mandalorian empire’s win, though it was a shame to kill such a skilled warrior before they had a chance to make their mark on the galaxy. Jaster would give them an honorable death.

With that in mind, he signaled his commandos to temporarily cease firing, cutting off the jetii’s long range abilities, unhooked the flamethrower from his back, and charged.

He stopped short of the reach of the blade, and let loose. Blaster fire resumed, keeping the jetii from closing the distance enough to hit Jaster or the flamethrower, and they had to back up to avoid catching on fire—

__—just enough for Jaster to follow them up into the ship._ _

__The jetii’s eyes were wide with alarm; they’d likely recognized the famed tracyn ram'or pioneered by Tarre Vizsla himself to counter kad’au wielders. It only worked if the targeted jetii was wildly outnumbered, which was why it was so convenient that the order was so picky and the empire very much was not._ _

__And then there was a scream and the distinct sound of a second kad’au igniting. Jaster instinctively lashed out with the combat knife he kept strapped to his rifle at a flash of blond hair and wide, scared eyes—_ _

__And then the first jetii had thrown their own body between them and taken a blade to the gut, sheltering the jetii’ka—the adiik—little gods, Jaster had almost killed a child—_ _

__He felt himself go jiriad, and then the jetii fell to their knees, the hilt of the knife slipping through Jaster’s slack fingers._ _

__“Obi-Wan!” the child screamed, clutching at their shoulders, but still the jetii was pushing them back, trying even now to sacrifice themselves and spare their adiik._ _

__“Don’t hurt him,” they begged, through teeth gritted with pain. “Do what you will with me, but let my padawan go free. Please.”_ _

__“Obi-Wan, no!” the child said, voice shrill. The jetii’ka tried to move in front of the jetii even as the elder shoved the younger back. “Let him go, he’s hurt, he could die, take me instead. I’m real strong in the Force and I used to be a slave so… so I’ll be yours if you help him.”_ _

__“Anakin,” the jetii hissed, anguish in his voice, and Jaster was nearly bowled over by how much he wanted them both._ _

This was aliit of the truest kind. _This_ was _mandokar._

__“GET SOME BACTA IN HERE!” he hollered, snatching the still-ignited pair of kad’au on the floor, turning them off, and shoving them into his thigh holsters._ _

“... _MEG_?” Thrava asked, as if she couldn’t believe her ears. 

“ _BACTA. NOW. I’M SPONSORING THESE TWO FOR INTEGRATION AND ONE’S BLEEDING OUT FROM A GUT WOUND._ ”

____There was a chorus of confused shouting. Some were annoyed, some were excited, and some just couldn’t understand him through his helmet. Thankfully, Suki appeared to be comming the medics. Jaster made a mental note to tell Jango to promote her._ _ _ _

____Jaster knew what all the fuss was about. He was famously dismissive of the integration program, because he felt true Mando’ade should hear and heed the call themselves. He was a minority in that viewpoint, as most major aliit’e had at least one integrated member in their history, but people were willing to overlook his unpopular opinions as long as he didn’t try to unilaterally make them into legislation._ _ _ _

____And now, for the first time, Jaster Mereel was sponsoring someone. Two someones, in fact._ _ _ _

____Jaster, uncaring of the stir his words caused, took off his helmet and approached the pair of former jetii the galaxy had seen fit to drop in his lap. The elder—Obi-Wan, the boy had called him—was shielding his child as closely as he could with a gushing puncture wound, and the younger—Anakin—was crying in his embrace, hands hovering uncertainly over the knife. Jaster felt a twist of remorse for causing the pair pain, and endless gratitude that Obi-Wan had stopped him from inadvertently becoming a child killer, a demagolka._ _ _ _

____“Don’t touch that, verd’ika,” he said quietly, spreading his hands to show he meant no (further) harm. “It will make him bleed worse if you do. Our medics are on their way.”_ _ _ _

____“Don’t talk to him,” Obi-Wan snarled. “I don’t want your help if it means you’ll take my padawan as a slave.”_ _ _ _

____“Mandalorians do not deal in slavery,” Jaster cut in, tone firm. “We will help you both. You have my word as Mand’alor.”_ _ _ _

____And then the medic that had snuck through the airlock jabbed the pair of them with sedative hyposprays._ _ _ _

____Jaster sighed. She really was cutthroat sometimes, that Suki._ _ _ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Glossary:
> 
>  _ramikadyc_ \- commando state of mind - an attitude that he/ she can do anything, endure anything, and achieve the objective. A blend of complete confidence and extreme tenacity instilled in special forces during training. Can also be used informally to describe a determined, focused person.
> 
>  _jetii_ \- Jedi (adding the 'ika diminutive means padawan, bc I don't think the Mandalorians have a separate word for that)
> 
>  _shuk’yc_ \- not working, no use, useless, broken down, out of order - usually said of machinery
> 
>  _gev_ \- stop
> 
>  _ad_ \- daughter/son/child
> 
>  _atin_ \- stubborn, tenacious, capable of endurance
> 
>  _buy'ce_ \- helmet
> 
>  _Mando’ade_ \- Mandalorians (pl) - sons and/ or daughters of Mandalore
> 
>  _kad'au_ \- lightsaber
> 
>  _di'kut_ \- idiot, useless individual, waste of space (lit. someone who forgets to put their pants on) ( _di'kut'e_ makes this plural I think??? I hope????? Help me Obi-Wan Kenobi???????????)
> 
>  _haran_ \- spooky Mandalorian hell
> 
>  _tracyn ram'or_ \- fire offensive/attack (the tracyn ram'or is totally made up, I just think it's a cool and extra way to fight a Jedi, which is right up the Mandalorians' alley)
> 
>  _adiik_ \- child aged 3 to 13
> 
>  _jiriad_ \- white, chalky, ashen-faced
> 
>  _aliit_ \- family/clan
> 
>  _mandokar_ \- the *right stuff*, the epitome of Mando virtue - a blend of aggression, tenacity, loyalty and a lust for life
> 
>  _meg_ \- what
> 
>  _demagolka_ \- someone who commits atrocties, a real-life monster, a war criminal - from the notorious Mandalorian scientist of the Old Republic, Demagol, known for his experiments on children, and a figure of hate and dread in the Mando psyche
> 
>  _verd'ika_ \- private (rank) Can be used affectionately, often to a child; *little soldier* - context is critical.
> 
> Also assume italicized phrases are Mando'a too bc I don't know what a "conjugation" is and at this point I'm too afraid to ask.
> 
> I feel like one of those weebs who peppers in excessive amounts of Japanese but HAH it's a made up language! If Tolkien can do it, so can I!!!
> 
> Jango will show up... eventually. I can't really do their Integration dynamic justice but this is a different set of circumstances!! Maybe Jango will be chill and emotionally healthy and shit. (No, he won't.)


	2. Jango & Obi-Wan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, tonally this chapter is pretty different from Integration, but I wanted to establish how different Obi-Wan's mental state is here. He's young, still reeling from the loss of his master, and his priorities are very different as a master of a preteen padawan than they are as the famed Negotiator.
> 
> He kind of loses his shit, is what I'm hinting at. Hopefully it isn't too OOC?
> 
> This chapter is shorter than the last one but closer to my typical chapter word count. I found a good place to stop kind of early on even though Obi-Wan still wanted to ramble for several more paragraphs, so I have the first fourth of the next chapter done already, yay!

Jango woke an hour before daybreak to the beeping of his comm, somewhere on the floor with the rest of his clothes. He let go of the Miraluka he’d entertained the previous night, ignoring his guest’s sleepy mumbles, and snatched it from its nest in his shirt.

“Fett,” he growled, voice rough for a number of reasons, the most relevant being irritation.

“Jate vaar’tur, Jango,” Jaster said, clearly amused. “Nuhoy pirusti?”

“Buir.” He was up off the bed in an instant. “An staabi?”

“Udesii, an utrel’a. There’s just been a change in schedule. I’ll be back this afternoon.”

Jango sat back down, rubbing at his inner canthi. “Tion’jor?”

“What, aren’t you happy I’ll be home soon?” Jaster teased. “You were so reluctant to send me on this blue milk run in the first place.”

“I’ll be happier once I have more than three hours’ sleep. And it’s not as simple as you claim if you’ve cut it short.” Jango could feel the Miraluka stirring at his back, and distractedly gestured for him to keep quiet.

Jaster, a nagging tone slipping into his voice, said, “Not my fault you stay up all hours. You need to settle down, adopt me some bu’ade.”

“Bu _ir_ ,” Jango groaned, the little part of him still capable of embarrassment after two decades of this talk absolutely mortified to subject his bedmate to his father’s ongoing crusade to marry him off. He was picky about who he slept with, and even pickier about who he considered a friend. It would take someone pretty kriffing exceptional to convince him they were worthy of being his Alor’iduur. 

Jaster just laughed at him, then said, “Anyway, the reason I commed is because I’m sponsoring two people for integration, and I wanted you to hear it first. One adult, one child.”

Jango’s eyebrows shot up. “Why?”

Jaster was silent for a moment, then admitted, “They impressed me. Get a room ready in the Force user wing. Ret’, Jango. See you soon.”

The comm cut off before he could respond.

Jango sat still for a minute, digesting the conversation. His father, after a lifetime of criticizing the practice, was sponsoring two people. Force users. From republic space. He hadn’t _seemed_ any different, but….

Jango had a bad feeling about this.

After pulling on his clothes and his armor, and thanking the Miraluka for a great night, Jango met Effao and Akkus for breakfast. By this time, word had spread that the Mand’alor was returning early, as well as the reasons behind it, and the cafeteria was buzzing with gossip.

“Alor’ika, doesn’t your buir hate the integration program?” Akkus asked, picking absently at zir food. Ze was clearly grumpy at not being able to eat breakfast with zir son, so Jango allowed the nickname with only a mild dirty look.

“Yeah, no one can get ‘Alor to say a single positive thing about it, and suddenly he’s a sponsor?” Effao said, tearing into her meal much more enthusiastically.

“Later,” Jango cautioned, glancing around at curious eavesdroppers, who speedily reapplied themselves to their own conversations instead of his. “My buir has his reasons. I have to go over the reports from that moon settlement in the Concord Dawn system with the advisors.” As his own advisors loudly agreed, he made a few discreet hand signals to them, and their tiny nods showed the message was received. Jango thought there might be something suspicious going on, but he didn’t want too many people knowing about it. At least, not yet.

He spent his morning meeting distracted, though he could tell his buir’s advisors were hardly much better. After all, there was hardly anything pressing enough to distract from _Jaster Mereel_ sponsoring two people, and _Force users_ at that. He could tell a few were just as leery of the implications as he was.

All in all, not much got done that morning. Jango was glad he’d gotten so much done in the previous days, otherwise Jaster would kill him for slacking off. Not that anyone _but_ Jaster Mereel could get away with calling Jango sharal; the only one who expected more of Jango was Jango himself.

Jango was itching to move by the time the commandos returned from their scouting expedition. As soon as the transports from the warship were reported to have breached the atmosphere he was on his feet, flanked by his father’s advisors, Effao, Akkus, and Threl following at a respectful distance.

As they waited for the shuttles to touch down in the massive hangar of the main compound, Jango took a moment to observe Keldabe below. The streets of the city-fort were teeming with people, and it wasn’t even a market day. Obviously word had gotten out that the Mand’alor had returned, along with his sponsees for the integration program.

Despite his suspicions, Jango couldn’t help but break into a grin at the sight of his buir’s familiar red and silver beskar’gam. He hated being separated from his family, even if the ruug'la jag drove him dini’la sometimes.

“Buir,” he said, stepping forward and grasping Jaster’s forearm as soon as he disembarked. Jaster ignored his son’s attempt at formality and pulled him into a bear hug, drawing laughter from the crowd below. 

Jango laughed despite himself, and knocked his forehead into Jaster’s buy’ce in a playful Keldabe kiss. He pulled back to clasp forearms with Thrava and Suki, who stood behind his father, then stepped back so that the rest of the commandos could more easily disembark. He frowned at the blast marks that appeared frequently on their armor; a few were even on floating stretchers, though thankfully it seemed no di’kut had gotten shot without their beskar’gam to take the worst of it. A face-to-face fight, then; right up Jaster’s alley. There was a chance, however slim, that someone might genuinely impress him enough to get sponsored in that kind of encounter.

“Suki,” he said quietly, “din’kartay.”

Suki, uncharacteristically, hesitated. “‘Alor mentioned he wanted to talk to you about it himself.”

Jango sighed, but subsided for now. He wasn’t Mand’alor yet, for all his buir was eager to retire and go straight back to training commandos, and he refused to countermand his orders even if Jaster likely wouldn’t mind.

Finally, after the commandos were all off, two stasis pods flanked by medics floated down from Jaster’s ship. The transparisteel was partially opaque, but he caught a glimpse of familiar-looking bloodstained tunics from one of them, and stilled. Had his buir really…?

Jango turned, and as Jaster’s red cape flapped around him, he saw glints of metal from his thigh holsters that weren't typically there. Kad’ause.

The Mand’alor had a spontaneous change of heart for _jetiise._

Kark. All of Jango’s worst suspicions were suddenly looking a lot more feasible.

-

Obi-Wan woke up in the nicest cell he had ever occupied.

For a second he was utterly baffled. Where was he? He could’ve sworn he had been stabbed, not put up in a hotel like some drunken charity case. 

And then, when he reached out for Anakin and felt their bond stretched thinner than it had ever been since the start of his apprenticeship, he found he had greater worries than his accommodations.

Anakin was only a child, and as Obi-Wan was all too aware, worryingly reckless when it came to his own wellbeing. (He still had no idea where that had come from.) If he woke up alone, without his master beside him to soothe his anxieties and temper his impulsivity, he could very well attack someone much larger and stronger and get seriously injured. His padawan thought himself invulnerable, but that was more because of Obi-Wan’s obsessive hovering and sheer dumb luck than anything else.

Obi-Wan sprang to his feet, his stab wound twinging sharply but not reopening, and made for the exit, which didn't open either. He belatedly noticed the cuffs on his wrists when he raised his fists to bang on the door. No one answered him. 

He had to take a breath to calm himself when he noticed the Force responding to his agitation, the cot and bedside table beginning to float, almost begging to be used as projectiles. The Force always rushed to answer his call when it was in service of Anakin; Obi-Wan had his doubts about whether his apprentice was truly the prophesied “Chosen One,” but the boy undoubtedly had a deep connection to the Force that was practically unheard of outside of Jedi masters. He realized he had been pulling on their bond unconsciously and continuously, gave one last mental tug, and released his anxiety into the Force. He was of no help to Anakin in this state.

Obi-Wan sighed deeply and stepped away from the door for now, and inspected his cell. No windows, tiny vents, and reinforced walls meant he had no way out without a lightsaber. The refresher, though surprisingly well-stocked, was about as helpful, and the closet even less so. They’d taken all his hidden weapons, too, but Mandalorians were well-versed enough in weaponry, as well as how to carry as much of it on your person as physically possible, that this did not surprise him.

He noticed his throat was dry to the point of pain, and had to take a second to drink deeply from the sink. That, paired with the needle mark in his arm and the almost-healed stab wound, indicated that he had been sedated for quite some time. Perhaps a week or more. They were likely already on Mandalore. 

He was also uncomfortably aware that someone had changed his clothes and bathed him while he was unconscious. Loss of bodily autonomy was why he tended to avoid the halls of healing in the temple, and to know that he’d been touched while vulnerable by anyone, especially an enemy, made his skin crawl. The very Mandalorian clothing, which was meant to be worn under armor and thus tight and practical and clingy, threw him even further off-balance.

Obi-Wan cursed himself for allowing someone to get the drop on him so easily. He’d been overwhelmed; not only by the novel sensation of serrated steel acquainting itself with his innards, but by Anakin’s distress. His padawan had not had the training all initiates had in shielding their minds, and that combined with his strength in the Force could be invasive, even painful, for the other Force-sensitives around him. His dislike for meditation and the other mental arts only exacerbated that issue, and even after nearly two years he could still overload their bond in moments of intense emotion. The only reason he wasn’t now was likely because they were far enough apart to weaken their fledgling connection.

The other factor had been Jaster Mereel. The Mand’alor had certainly earned his reputation as a Jedi hunter; he had easily overwhelmed Obi-Wan with superior tactics and literal firepower. Obi-Wan, like most other Jedi, trained extensively in how to counter their favored flamethrower offense, but Jaster had read him like a book and beaten him anyway. He had nearly let the man kill his padawan; he was uncomfortably aware that they were only alive on Mereel’s whim. He needed to find his padawan and flee before the Mand’alor changed his mind.

Obi-Wan sat on the cot and settled into a light battle meditation, which he occasionally broke by worrying at his bond with Anakin like a loose tooth, and eventually the door slid open. A Mandalorian, hand on their blaster, stepped inside.

“Where is my padawan?” Obi-Wan demanded, voice not nearly as unruffled as he wanted it.

“Safe, with the other foundlings,” the guard said, tone almost reassuring, before gesturing towards the door. “Out in the hallway, now.”

Obi-Wan complied, keeping his body language loose, listening to the Force, waiting for an opportunity. He saw a sort of chain gang, all wearing the same cuffs, led by another Mandalorian, and saw a third approach him with an odd stick— 

_Now,_ the Force signalled, and Obi-Wan leapt, only just evading the lunging guards and flipping over the line of surprised prisoners. He landed, catlike, on the balls of his feet, and broke into an inhumanly fast sprint, ducking and jumping over blasterfire. He heard shouting, and someone must’ve had a comm because the alarms went off almost immediately after he rounded the corner. A series of metal grates started lowering at regular intervals. He slowed them down as best he could, and managed to slide under the last one before ending up in what appeared to be a cafeteria of some kind. He rolled to his feet and looked around.

A number of off-duty Mandalorians stared back at him, before one yelled something in Mando’a and Obi-Wan jumped back into action, dodging a few more blaster bolts before he was in the thick of things and they could no longer risk it. He clotheslined a Pa’lowick, Force shoved a Selkath, and then he was bounding from table to table, stepping in lunches and occasionally kicking plates at particularly tenacious assailants. He floated some cutlery into the air and used them as projectiles, wincing when he heard them screech against beskar, and then he had reached the other side.

Obi-Wan yanked the massive metal doors off their hinges with the Force, his pursuers stumbling at the display of power, then threw them back as he ran between them, Mandalorians diving every which way to avoid getting crushed. If he had been less focused on finding his student, his massive boost in ability would have surprised even him. The alarms were still going, but thankfully it appeared no one had thought he would get this far, so the corridor was clear for now. He let the training bond guide him onwards, and suddenly the faint, far-away anxiety he’d felt from it exploded into excitement as he reached another door. He was close.

“ _Anakin,_ ” he breathed, the name ripped from his tongue in sheer relief. Obi-Wan could feel his student’s anger and worry and happiness, and most of all, his faith that his master would come for him.

And then someone in blue and silver beskar’gam tackled him to the floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Jate vaar’tur_ \- good morning  
>  _Nuhoy pirusti_ \- sleep well  
>  _An staabi_ \- all right  
>  _Udesii, an utrel’a _\- calm down, everything's fine (an utrel'a literally means "all clear." I figured all clear in the military sense of the term could be used colloquially bc they don't have a word for okay or fine in Mando'a and I didn't feel like su oyayc fit here?)  
>  _Tion’jor_ \- why  
>  _bu'ade_ \- grandkids. Yes, Jaster is _that_ kind of parent. I figure most Mandalorians are, lmao.  
>  _Alor’iduur_ \- term I made up meaning "mate/spouse of the Mand'alor." I can't remember if there's a specific word for this in Integration or not?  
>  _Ret’_ \- bye  
>  _sharal_ \- lazy  
>  _ruug'la jag_ \- old man  
>  _dini’la_ \- crazy/insane  
>  _buy’ce_ \- helmet  
> Keldabe kiss - Manda version of a hongi. Involves foreheads more than noses so that you can do it in a helmet. Fun fact: loads of Mandalorian culture is based on Maori culture, in honor of Temuera Morrison! Jango's homeworld is actually named after a New Zealand band :)  
>  _din’kartay_ \- sitrep, wash-up, any sharing of information and planning (military, also used colloquially)  
>  _Kad’ause_ \- plural of kad'au (lightsabers)__
> 
> _  
> _Also, Manda'yaim is still habitable! Sundari doesn't exist because they don't need dome cities! The premise of Integration is that Revan never happened, so I figure the landscape never got razed._  
> _
> 
> Also also, Jaster and Jango talk a LOT in Mando'a. I figured that, as adopted father and son, they probably would. I hope I got Jango's unique, terse way of speaking correct!
> 
> Hope you liked it! Let me know if there's anything in particular you'd like to see and I'll try to work it in :D


	3. Jango & Anakin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I watched the AotC Jangobi fight like 5 times while I was writing this chapter, and I had an absolute blast. My second favorite part is when Jango smacks his head on Slave I's door while they're escaping, but the part where he basically lifts Obi-Wan's entire body weight with one arm so he can cut the cord tethering them is a close third. The first is, of course, when Obi-Wan kicks Jango off a building despite them being literally tied together at the time. But honestly the whole fight is evidence that George Lucas loves me and wants me to be happy. Seriously, I laugh harder every time.
> 
> I might come back to edit this later because I wrote the Anakin part in between puking my guts out and it probably shows.
> 
> Check the comments on chapter 2 for some rlly cute backstory on Akkus from Millberry_5! I also write a lot of headcanons and stuff in the comments, so they're a good place to check if you wanna know the interpretations informing this fic/argue about them with me.

Jango was in a foul mood. 

He’d tried to grill Jaster about the jetiise he’d brought back, but he had gone straight to debriefing about the supply route expedition and waved off both his son and his advisors. It was irritating, but also habitual for the Mand’alor, and thus not proof one way or another that he was still under the influence of whatever Force banthakark the jetii had pulled.

So he’d waited for his buir to finish his debrief, but then the advisors had swept him away before Jango could get a word in edgewise. Only Thrava and Suki, who both looked dead on their feet, were left behind. 

Effao and Threl were pestering the Selonian, whose bristling fur and slowly-flattening ears indicated that she was seconds away from launching herself bodily at the pair of them. Jango decided to leave well enough alone—Suki fought dirty, and the finer points of fair play in spars seemed to escape her when she was particularly annoyed. 

Jango, with Akkus at his heels, went after Thrava, who seemed to be contemplating making a break for her bed while everyone was distracted.

“Su’cuy gar, Thrava.”

She gave him a tired quirk of the lips. Thrava Wrilli was a Weequay in her mid-sixties who had been his buir’s friend and comrade for about as long as Jango had been alive. He still occasionally forgot that he outranked her now.

“Su oyayc, Jango. I take it you have questions about the jetiise?”

Jango nodded. Behind him, Threl yelped and Effao cackled. Suki had apparently run out of patience. Akkus slipped away to deal with them, leaving Jango and Thrava to speak privately.

“I don’t actually know much. None of us saw what happened, except ‘Alor and maybe the jetiise. A medic caught the tail end of their conversation but they said that all they heard was Jaster giving his word as Mand’alor to help them.” 

Jango cursed, quietly but vehemently, then said, “That can’t be good. Did he say what with?”

“...No. But he doesn’t seem any different to me. If he got mind tricked, would he really let the jetiise get sedated?” Thrava asked, eyes flicking to Jango’s advisors, who were making more than enough noise to shield their conversation from any eavesdroppers.

“Could be a long con. Don’t know what the jetii is after, but they probably want to lull us into a false sense of security before they get it.”

“By leaving both himself and his adiik unconscious and at our mercy? With a stab wound in his gut, that Jaster gave him?”

“He could’ve mind tricked buir after getting knifed. Odd enough that Jaster didn’t finish the job after getting a blade in him. Should’ve been easy enough to gut him, not like jetiise wear armor.”

Thrava frowned, but had nothing to say to that. Jaster wasn’t the type to leave his enemies alive if he could help it. 

Jango clapped her on the shoulder. “Jate'shya tsikala kyr’adyc. Vor’e.”

Thrava clicked her heels together and bowed, recognizing the dismissal. Despite their heavy conversational topic, she looked relieved to be able to go home and rest, and Jango was loath to work her harder than he had to. She had a full plate keeping Jaster alive and well—he had his fair share of enemies, and one reason he planned on retiring soon was that Jango was more popular with his political rivals. His outspoken nature and rigid convictions could be polarizing, to say the least. 

Ironically, his sponsorship of two people for the integration program might do a lot to ease relations with the clan heads. If only they hadn’t been kriffing jetiise.

“Hokaanir bic dayn, adike,” Jango said, and Suki reluctantly took her boot off Threl’s back as Effao released her from a headlock. Akkus stood to the side with a longsuffering look on zir face. Jango appreciated the lengths his advisors went to conceal the dealings he wanted kept discreet, but sometimes he got the feeling that they just liked scuffling with each other.

“Hear anything interesting, alor’ad?” Threl asked with a grin, throwing a hand out to Akkus, who rolled zir eyes but obligingly hauled him to his feet.

“Other than Suki kicking your shebs? Nothing duracrete. Thrava has her doubts, but I’m not convinced.”

“What would convince you?” Akkus asked.

“Nakar'mir. Need more information before I can make a decision, and I don’t know osik about what that jetii can do with the Force.” Jango sighed and cracked his neck. “For now, all I can do is wait to talk to the Mand’alor. Akkus, Suki, take a break. I’ll comm you if anything important happens. Effao, Threl, one of you escort my buir after his meeting and let me know when he’s free to speak with me.”

As Effao and Threl started a game of rock flimsi vibro to decide who got guard duty, Jango turned on his heel and started down the hall.

“Where are you headed?” Suki asked, blunter than usual due to annoyance and exhaustion.

“Foundlings. Haven’t visited in nearly a month, and the jetii’ka should have woken up by now. Ret’.” 

“Ret'urcye mhi,” his advisors chorused, and then went their separate ways (except Effao, who had apparently lost and was muttering about cheating pilots). 

Jango, being a former foundling himself, made a point of visiting them regularly. He planned on adopting a foundling one of these days, if one stood out enough. The foundlings were the future, after all, and Jango was going to be the first foundling Mand’alor in centuries.

When he was halfway to the hall that housed the newest foundlings, the containment breach alarm started blaring, because Jango apparently had the worst kriffing luck in the galaxy. He broke into a run, slamming on his buy’ce, intent on guarding the adiike until he had a better idea of what was going on— 

—and there was the jetii, wild-eyed, chest heaving, wearing Mando clothing and what looked like someone’s lunch on his pants. He was standing in front of the door to the foundlings’ hall, hand extended to do kriff knows what with the Force.

Naturally, Jango body slammed him into the floor.

The jetii, to his credit, immediately flipped him off and scrambled to his feet. Jango, weighed down by his beskar’gam, was only able to get his knees under him before a kick caught him in the face. Jango bent back to escape the worst of it, turning it into a glancing blow, and grabbed the jetii’s ankle. He twisted, but the jetii flipped with it to keep the bone from breaking, his other foot coming up in midair and catching Jango in the side of the head. The built up centrifugal force sent Jango lurching to the side with a grunt of pain.

The jetii was on him, trying to grapple him to the floor, but Jango sent him tumbling back with a vicious headbutt. He fired his sen’tra briefly, mindful of the ceiling, and came down feet first. The jetii rolled to the side just in time, Jango’s boots cracking the decorative tile flooring where he had just been, and rolled to his feet. Jango threw a punch, and the jetii bent backwards to avoid it, probably knowing that a beskar gauntlet could easily crack his skull with enough strength behind it. One leg came up and hooked its ankle around Jango’s own as he tried to press forward, yanking to the side hard enough to take his foot out from under him. 

As Jango struggled to regain his balance, the jetii hesitated, his eyes darting to the side towards the foundlings’ quarters, features creasing with pain. Jango seized the advantage and sucker punched him, right where he thought the stab wound was, and was rewarded with a gasp of pain as the jetii bent double. Jango kneed him in the face, aiming for his nose, and heard a loud _crack._

And suddenly Jango was flying backwards, not stopping until he slammed into the wall and fell in a heap. His head was ringing even with his helmet on. He saw the jetii coming closer, blood streaming from his nose and down the cleft in his chin, hand outstretched, and thought muzzily, _Force osik again. Is he gonna mind trick me?_

The jetii did not look like he was going to mind trick him. In fact, he looked royally pissed off, and Jango would be smug about cracking that serene jetii facade they all wore like masks if he wasn’t abruptly worried about surviving this encounter.

“You _will not_ hurt my padawan,” the jetii said, voice trembling, and Jango realized that it wasn’t _rage_ in those bright blue-green eyes, but _fear._ There was a tickling in his throat, and then it was getting harder and harder to breathe— 

Jango ripped off his buy’ce, gasping for air, wondering if the filters had malfunctioned, and then the jetii was stumbling back, face ashen. 

“I-I’m sorry,” he whispered, and Jango half-wondered if the jetii was a lunatic. He found he didn’t care all that much as he smacked a button on his gauntlet and a fibercord whip wrapped bodily around the jetii, pulling his arms and legs together. Jango pounced and wrestled him to the floor, the jetii’s struggles suddenly wild and uncoordinated, muscles visibly straining and flexing against the cord and Jango’s greater bulk. He activated the cuffs on his wrists, just to be safe, and then slammed the jetii’s skull into the ground for good measure. The last two head wounds he’d taken hadn’t slowed him down all that much, but a third certainly couldn’t hurt.

“Dinuir laam, jetii,” Jango growled, but the jetii was still fighting, a dazed look on his face and desperation in his eyes as he actually tried to _roll_ towards the door that sheltered the foundlings. Jango had to straddle him just to keep him still.

“Please, let me see Anakin, he’s scared, I need to let him know it’s not his fault,” the jetii begged, and then he seemed to really see Jango for the first time. Their eyes locked, Jango still trying and failing to catch his breath, and then the jetii started _apologizing_ for choking him.

“What?” Jango asked. The entire encounter has thrown him off balance, but this was just too much, even for a jetii. Gods know they’ve never apologized to the Mando’ade before, even when it _was_ warranted. Jango had choked out enough people that he's not all that offended that someone tried it on him, even with the Force, but he was pretty kriffing confused that the jetii stopped, unprompted, halfway through.

“I swear, I will never use the Force to harm you or yours in such a way again,” he pledged, face hard with resolve even in the throes of his frenzy, and even if he was clearly dini’la Jango couldn’t help but believe him.

-

Anakin was not having a good day.

He woke up in a dormitory of some kind, wearing weird new clothes and surrounded by curious, unfamiliar faces. It was like coming to the temple, but a million times worse, because he was hungry and thirsty and his head hurt and Master Jinn wasn’t there and Obi-Wan wasn’t there and he couldn’t feel him and he _got stabbed because of Anakin—_

His head felt too light. He reached up to touch his hair, and realized that someone had cut off his padawan braid.

Anakin, to his horror and shame, burst into tears.

“ADAT’JURI, THE NEW KID’S CRYING,” hollered a young Kiffar on the bed next to him, watching him with wide brown eyes. They couldn’t be older than six or seven standard.

A short, stocky Gran bustled into the room, holding a tray that they set on the tiny bedside table next to Anakin’s bed. They shooed the Kiffar and the other kids out of the room, then picked up a glass of water from the tray and urged Anakin to drink.

“Oh, cyar’ika, it’s okay,” they cooed, settling next to him but making no attempt to touch him. Anakin just kept crying, struggling to gulp the water past the painful lump in his throat. “It can be scary, waking up in a new place. Would you like a handkerchief?” They whipped out a soft cloth and began dabbing at his cheeks before Anakin could respond.

Anakin smacked their hand away, watching their large dark eyes blink in surprise before they went right back to dabbing.

“Now, none of that, ad’ika. We’re all aliit here. My name is Togg Tor, they/them/theirs. You can call me Adat’juri Tor or just Adat’juri, if that’s easier to remember. And who might you be?”

“I’m Anakin Skywalker and I’m a Jedi padawan and I want you to take me to my master _right now_ ,” Anakin demanded, setting down the now-empty glass and dodging Togg’s gentle hands, still wielding the handkerchief.

“No, not anymore, Anakin,” Togg said patiently, setting the handkerchief down for the moment. “You’re a Mando’ad now.”

“Am _not_ ,” retorted Anakin, flabbergasted. “I wasn’t even born in Mandalorian space or anything!”

“Well, you weren’t always a jetii, either, were you?” Togg replied. “But you became one because they took you. Now we’ve done the same, and we’ll treat you much better here than the jetii did.”

“I _chose_ to be a Jedi,” Anakin said, puffing up his chest, “so you can’t make me do _kark._ ” Obi-Wan would’ve scolded him for using bad language, even to a Mandalorian, but Obi-Wan wasn’t here right now—was in fact far enough away that Anakin couldn’t feel any of his emotions at all—and Anakin needed to find him _right away._

“Well,” said Togg, crinkling their eyestalks in a way that meant they were amused (Anakin had seen Mawhonic do the same thing when he and Greedo got in a fight near his podracer once), “then you can _choose_ to become Manda, can’t you? We’ll convince you soon enough.”

Anakin didn’t really have a retort for that, other than, “Nuh- _uh_. I want to see my master.” 

“You’ll see him soon, Anakin, I promise. But wouldn’t you rather eat now? You must be hungry.”

That was true.

Togg handed him a bowl from the tray, carrying a delicious-smelling stew that looked loads better than Obi-Wan’s cooking. (His master wasn’t a bad chef, exactly, but he defintely wasn’t _good_.) Anakin, too hungry to be wary, dug in immediately.

It was _really_ good. No one in the temple seemed to know how to use spices, preferring bland, uncomplicated fare, but Mandalorians definitely did. It kind of reminded Anakin of Tatooine, but with fresh ingredients instead of the Hutts’ leftover slop or Watto’s tasteless slave rations.

It was gone before he knew it. Anakin purposefully wiped his mouth with his sleeve, knowing how much it annoyed Obi-Wan when he did that, and Togg seemed a little put out by his table manners, as well. They visibly restrained themselves from commenting—Anakin knew it, they were totally the preachy teach type—and just took his dirty dishes. 

“Would you like to meet the other adiike, now?” Togg asked, pointedly handing him the handkerchief. Anakin just put it on the tray.

“The other what?”

“The other children,” Togg explained. “Everyone here is still learning Mando’a, don’t worry. They can help you.”

Anakin wrinkled his nose. “I’m not good with languages unless it’s swear words. Obi-Wan’s real good, though. He knows at least four!”

“Your buir must be very smart, then,” Togg said indulgently.

“My what?”

“Your parent.”

Anakin stiffened, turning away from the Gran. “Obi-Wan’s _not_ my dad, he’s my _master_.” He ignored the customary twinge of discomfort and resentment that came with the title. “Where is he? He’s gonna be mad when I tell him you cut my braid.”

“You’ll see him soon,” Togg promised, not actually answering his question, then cajoled him out of the dorm room and into the hallway. The walls were painted a cheerful yellow, with tons of pictures drawn on flimsiplast and posters of Mandalorians—especially the one that stabbed Obi-Wan. Anakin scowled whenever he saw one. Where was he? Was Anakin here because he’d offered to become his slave? Did the Mand’alor decide that meant he wanted to become Mandalorian, since they didn’t have slaves here?

They came into a large, circular room, with groups of kids ranging from toddlers to kids Anakin’s age or a little older, seated in sections divided by age. Each had an adult supervising, and they were all clumsily conversing in Mando’a.

Did Togg take him to a _language class?_

Togg called for everyone’s attention and introduced him. Anakin just scowled, trying not to be embarrassed that a lot of these kids had already seen him cry. The tiny Kiffar waved shyly, offering him a grin that he didn’t return.

Everyone went around the room and said their name and pronouns, though Anakin had to be prompted to give his. Anakin immediately forgot all of them.

Anakin was ushered into a group of kids his age who all eyed him as warily as he eyed them, despite the teacher’s attempts to break the ice. He was still sitting there, hunched over a vocabulary worksheet, flat out refusing to participate, when an alarm went off.

“I’ve never heard that one before,” a Rodian whispered, but then the teachers were standing and urging them back into the dorm rooms. Anakin stood to follow, but then he felt his master’s presence, faint and far away but steadily getting closer.

Giddy with excitement, Anakin dodged the teacher reaching for his shoulder and ran where his bond pulled him, the Force swirling ecstatically around him. He saw Togg jump from the corner of his eye when things started floating, but paid them no mind.

Eventually he was standing in front of a large door in the main hallway, but it was biolocked and wouldn’t open no matter how hard he pulled. Obi-Wan was so close—he could feel him right outside!!

Obi-Wan’s surprise and relief flooded their bond, and Anakin laughed with near-hysterical happiness when he felt it. His master was all right! Obi-Wan would do anything for Anakin, would take a knife for him, had broken out of wherever he was being held for him, and he would _definitely_ save them both. Anakin’s master was the best in the whole galaxy.

And then shock and pain flashed through the bond, though Obi-Wan belatedly tried to shield him from it. Anakin started pulling even harder at the door, panicked, yanking at their mental link in an attempt to figure out what was happening.

More pain, stress, grim determination—someone was hurting his master, and Obi-Wan didn’t think he could win. What if he got stabbed again? What if they decided to kill him this time? 

Anakin knew what would happen. He would _kill them._

“Anakin, come back to the dorm, there’s someone dangerous loose,” Togg said, having apparently finished bringing the other kids to safety. They put a hand on his shoulder.

“ _NO!_ ” Anakin screamed, abruptly enraged by their fake kindness and fake reassurances, and shoved them away with the Force, harder than he’d ever managed before. Togg fell to the ground, three eyes wide with shock and the beginnings of fear. No one could hurt him, because he was strong in the Force, he was a _Jedi_. No one would hurt the people he loved ever again, or he’d hurt them twice as bad. He’d _make_ Togg open the door.

Fear flooded their bond. Anakin turned away from the Gran for now, worried about Obi-Wan, but then he realized that his master was afraid _for him._ He thought Anakin was getting hurt.

Anakin poured as much of himself as he could into Obi-Wan's mind, bolstering his master's presence with his own. He was skilled, but he wasn’t very powerful, and that was all right—when they worked together, they could beat _anyone._ Anakin's vision was going yellow-red, the Force howling around him as his Mandalorian captors shouted ineffectually, unable to reach him, and on the other side of the wall, Obi-Wan was _winning_ , but still terribly, terribly frightened, and Anakin basked in this sign of his master’s love and concern— 

_Anakin, stop. Please,_ his master whispered through their bond, the first time they’d managed to transmit more than emotions. He was still afraid for Anakin , but he was even more afraid of himself. Of what he was doing.

So Anakin stopped.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Su’cuy gar - Hello - lit. "You're still alive."  
> Su oyayc - formal response to su'cuy gar, lit. "still alive"  
> adiik - child aged 3 to 13  
> jate'shya tsikala kyr’adyc. Vor’e. - Better safe than sorry. Thanks. (lit. better prepared than dead/deceased.) Thank you to EscapistNo412 for helping me with the Mando'a!  
> Hokaanir bic dayn, adike - cut it out, lads/guys (adike is informal, can also be a plural of ad'ika - little one, son/ daughter/child of any age)  
> alor’ad - captain, but also a pun meaning "child of the Mand'alor." Threl thinks he's very clever.  
> shebs - ass  
> Nakar'mir- don't know. (thank you to EscapistNo412 again!!)  
> osik - shit  
> Ret'urcye mhi - goodbye, lit. "Maybe we'll meet again"  
> buy’ce - helmet  
> adiike - children  
> sen’tra - jetpack. Yes, Jango wears his whenever he armors up. If Jaster gets to wear his cape indoors, Jango gets to wear his jetpack.  
> Dinuir laam, jetii - give up, Jedi  
> Mando’ade - Mandalorians, lit. children of Mandalore  
> dini’la - crazy  
> adat'juri - teacher  
> cyar'ika - sweetheart, darling  
> aliit - family/clan
> 
> So now we know the source of Obi-Wan's sudden power boost! Good ol' fashioned unintentional Dark Side use, as well as Anakin heavily influencing his mental state through their bond. (I wrote this in a comment, but a combination of massive power in the Force and not being trained in mental shielding means Anakin can seriously affect the mental state of others, ranging from headaches to influencing the emotions of others.) If Obi-Wan ever fell, it would be from fear of loss, and his baby Darksider going mad with power in the other room really isn't helping matters. (Anakin is the cutest eldritch abomination.) I'm convinced that Obi used the Dark at least a little bit during his fight with Maul after Qui-Gon died.
> 
> But yeah, Obi's gonna hard nerf himself for a few chapters so that he doesn't accidentally Fall. Too bad the Mandalorians are already INTIMATELY AWARE of what he can do even WITHOUT the Dark Side... though, to them, the distinction hardly matters. Mandalorians strike me as a people who don't much care about the philosophy behind a weapon. The Force is unsettling to them precisely because it's so goddamn spiritual and mystical and shit.


	4. Jaster & Obi-Wan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is brought to you by the Jangobi part of this crackvid: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Kn2Po6Pgibo (subtitles on if you want the full experience -- and check out their other Star Wars vids, they're all hilarious)
> 
> Mind the tags, everyone! If (relatively minor) torture isn't something you want to read about, skip the part starting at "The Mandalorian glared down at him" and ending at "hilt poking from their boot."
> 
> This chapter should answer some questions you've had about Jaster's thought process, and what Obi _believes_ is going on with Anakin, but feel free to ask for clarification or elaboration if you need it! Rambling in the comments is my specialty.
> 
> Hope you enjoy!! Sorry it's shorter than usual.

Jaster was having a hellish time with this sponsorship nonsense.

He was positive that no one _else_ got interrogated about their choice to bring someone in, even Mando’ade with notoriously poor judgement in that area. If someone wasn’t a good fit, it would be made apparent during the integration process, and then they’d be dropped from the program. 

Jaster typically made the sponsors take care of that step personally—they brought in the trash, so they could take it out. It was his one stance on integration that everyone involved agreed with. 

“Can you go over what, exactly, inspired you to take in two jetiise?” Pel Vizsla asked yet again. Wayii, the woman was decades older than him. It was getting on his last nerve to have her talk to him like his helmet was cracked, sitting on the other end of the Mand’alor’s long campaign table with her cadre of clan heads like she owned the kriffing thing. Their animosity was as long lived as she was, and much less likely to die any time soon. 

Polarizing as Jaster could be, he inspired loyalty just as easily as he did animosity, and his side of the table was just as full. Figures that they’d pick _now_ to sit in silence and let him argue his case alone.

“As I said,” he growled, wishing desperately for a shower and to take off his beskar’gam, “the jetii impressed me. He’s strong, skilled, and he’s mandokarla. You can ask anyone on that ship if you need more than the word of your Mand’alor.”

A few of the less established clan heads shifted at the beskar in his voice. Jaster was known for his honesty in all things, perhaps especially the things he shouldn’t be quite so honest about, and to imply that he was a jehaatir would be a grave insult.

“No one doubts your word, Mand’alor,” a clan head from the neutral faction ventured, “but your… opinions on integration are well known. You don’t take prisoners, and I, for one, am curious about why you changed your mind. What made this jetii so much more exceptional than all the other warriors you’ve killed?”

Jaster paused for a moment to collect his thoughts. He would have to tread carefully; the Vizsla matriarch would take a klick if he gave an inch, he knew from long experience. If he said he’d had a total change of heart about the program, his other convictions could easily be called into question. Admitting to trying to harm a child, even unintentionally, could be grounds for insisting that he’d lost his edge, his skill in combat, and thus that he should step down as Mand’alor. During a sudden and unplanned succession, Pel would seize the chance to undermine Jango and put forth her own brat as being better suited for the position, which was only going to happen over Jaster’s dead body.

(And a small, ashamed part of him that could still see the terror on the ad’ika’s face didn’t want to admit to anyone how close he’d gotten to doing something unforgivable in his own selfish desire for action, for bloodshed, for glory. Because of it, Jaster couldn’t admit to the depths of his gratitude, to how deeply their aliit bond ran, to how much he wanted to have that kind of bravery and sacrifice and _love_ in his empire.)

After a moment of silence, where even his advisors looked oddly nervous, Jaster began. “I can’t stand waste of any kind, particularly of talent. The Republic has an incredibly skilled jetii that they’re wasting on grain runs to agricultural sectors. He’s also mandokarla; he attempted to sacrifice his own life to buy his adiik time to escape, and even if his plan failed it should be acknowledged. Besides, if he’s being overlooked by the Order, he’s probably an easy mark for the darjetiise. I’d rather that he be here than there. Even if we’re narudare.” 

He took a measured breath; while all of that was technically true, it _wasn’t_ what had changed his mind. However, his next statement was jare’la, considering that he had no intention of going back on his word to help the former jetiise. “However, if you all object, I _could_ kill him. You’d be losing a potential asset, but so be it. That is, if Clan Vizsla’s... concern is so overwhelming.”

Pel’s eyes narrowed; Jaster was dangerously close to implying she was a coward, and she knew it. A few other clan heads bristled at the idea that they would allow overcaution to dictate their actions instead of what was best for the empire. Jaster had to fight back a twitch of the lips. Hook, meet sinker.

He glanced at his advisors, and was perplexed by the unassuaged trepidation on their faces. They were very familiar with his persuasive tactics, how he stayed scrupulously truthful even as he led his detractors by the nose. He knew Thrava had told them about his promise to his sponsees; they should know he had no intention of breaking his oath. So what was it they were worried about?

When the meeting finally wrapped up, Jaster brushed off his advisors. Whatever their problem with the sponsorship was could wait until after he’d had a shower, a meal, and a nap.

Of kriffing course, that was when the alarms went off.

-

Obi-Wan had never realized just how _heavy_ beskar was. 

He had a better idea now that he was pinned under someone clad head-to-toe in it.

His skull was throbbing, and he wasn’t sure if it was the head trauma, the broken nose, or Anakin’s anger and upset that were most responsible. His padawan had settled somewhat when Obi-Wan had asked him to (and that was concerning in its own way, as the bond should not have been rooted deeply enough for them to communicate in words), but his building fatigue and confusion were almost as concerning.

Obi-Wan gasped in distress when he felt his padawan’s presence lessen, having apparently fallen unconscious, and writhed helplessly against the fibercord, cuffs, and Mandalorian keeping him down.

His captor, speaking urgently into their comm in Mando’a, gave him a warning shake that made his stomach roll. 

Obi-Wan’s recollection of events was muddled, as he was almost certainly concussed, but he thought he’d been at least flirting with the Dark during his escape from his cell. His subsequent fight with the Mandalorian had pushed him over the edge completely, and the training bond must have pulled Anakin down with him.

Most damningly, Obi-Wan had used his apprentice’s strength to bolster his own. His role as a master was to guide and instruct, _never_ to take something in return. That was something only the Sith did. Obi-Wan would never even think of exploiting Anakin in any way, and yet in his fear he must have subconsciously siphoned some of his padawan’s power. It was the only explanation that made sense.

And now Anakin was unconscious, from either a sedative or Force burnout. He was incredibly powerful, yet far too young to channel that power without consequences. 

Obi-Wan had _hurt_ his padawan.

He stopped struggling. Anakin was safer _away_ from him, even if every instinct was screaming at him to find his padawan, to comfort him and protect him. He needed to get himself under control or he’d just pull Anakin even further into the Dark. 

The Mandalorian finished up their comm call and looked down at him with sharp amber eyes. They were still panting from the earlier altercation, and Obi-Wan felt another stab of guilt that his apologies had done nothing to ease. He was very lucky that he hadn’t killed them while he was Falling; such an act would have anchored him in the Darkness.

“That was the most di’kutla, dini’la escape attempt I’ve ever seen,” his captor said eventually, tense with annoyance and barely-leashed aggression.

“So far,” Obi-Wan quipped, grasping for a semblance of his typical bravado. 

The Mandalorian didn’t rise to the bait. “What are you after? What did you do to the Mand’alor?”

Obi-Wan blinked, a little too discombobulated to follow their leap in logic. “What am _I_ after? It’s _your_ Mand’alor who decided to disrupt a relief mission and kidnap a child.” 

The Mandalorian glared down at him, one broad palm settling on his abdomen; Obi-Wan raised an eyebrow and didn’t flinch. They studied him for a moment, an odd sort of contemplation on their features, then pressed down _hard_ on his gut wound. “That’s not an answer, jetii. What is it you want?”

“I want my padawan freed and returned to the Order, _obviously_ ,” Obi-Wan hissed. Why the kriff were they going straight for enhanced interrogation techniques when he still had no earthly notion of what it was he was getting interrogated about? “I also wouldn’t say no to dinner, if you’re offering.”

The Mandalorian’s lip curled (though Obi-Wan sensed a quicksilver flash of reluctant amusement that was immediately suppressed), and they started digging their fingers into his flesh. Obi-Wan had to bite his lip to keep from shouting, and got a mouthful of blood for his trouble. Right, broken nose. He must be a sight.

The pressure subsided a little after a moment, and the Mandalorian sat back on Obi-Wan’s thighs, absently drumming their fingers on his hip. “I don’t enjoy hurting someone who isn’t hurting me back, but I can and will do worse if you don’t tell me what I want to know.”

Obi-Wan glared back, head throbbing, face streaked with blood, and enunciated, “I have _no karking clue_ what you want from me.”

“Have it your way, mir’sheb,” the Mandalorian said, and reached for the hilt poking from their boot.

“Jango, luubid,” someone commanded, and the Mandalorian froze just like Anakin did when Obi-Wan caught him breaking into the muja sauce before dinner. Obi-Wan looked up as best he could, and was treated to an upside-down view of the _last_ Mandalorian who’d gotten the jump on him. Apparently he was getting rusty. There were a few guards and a nervous-looking medic with a hoverstretcher behind him, each with their weapon of choice at the ready.

“Hello there, Mand’alor,” Obi-Wan said politely, slipping back into the ambassador persona Master Qui-Gon had drilled into him. It typically worked better if he didn’t look like he’d just gone three rounds with a rancor, but needs must. 

“Su’cuy gar… whatever your name is. Jango, get off him.”

“Obi-Wan Kenobi, at your service,” Obi-Wan replied automatically, as Jango stiffly rose to his feet. He noted the fresh dents in his armor with satisfaction, and was surprised when Mereel snorted with honest amusement.

“I apologize for my son’s threats, Kenobi. He’s usually more hospitable to integrators.”

Jango scowled, stewing in the way a sentient only could around a parent. Obi-Wan surprised even himself by laughing at the ridiculousness of the situation; the medic actually jumped a little, and Jango’s eyebrows were slowly climbing his forehead. 

“I appreciate your apology, Mand’alor, but I’m afraid I can’t accept it if you’re still intent on holding me hostage.”

“Mandalorians don’t take hostages,” Mereel said matter-of-factly, then turned back to the guards and the medic. “Get him some bacta. Some food, too. And next time don’t let him escape as soon as he wakes.”

“That’s quite all right, I’m sure I’ll manage—” Obi-Wan attempted, not relishing the prospect of visiting the Mandalorian equivalent of the halls of healing, but they were already hoisting him bodily onto the stretcher, still hogtied.

As the medic jabbed another hypospray into his neck, the last thing he heard was Jango asking one of the guards to bring back his fibercord whip when they were done with it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pel Vizsla is an OC. Pre had to come from somewhere, after all.
> 
> Obi-Wan is TOTALLY the type to call it "enhanced interrogation techniques" instead of torture, provided that he's the only victim. King of understating trauma right there.
> 
> cracked helmet - slang for going senile/getting one too many blows to the head. (same thing, for Mandos, considering just how many blows to the head those who survive to old age typically get)
> 
> Mando’ade - Mandalorians, lit. children of Mandalore  
> wayii - Good grief! General exclamation of surprise (or exasperation, in Jaster's case), good or bad.  
> jetiise - plural of jetii, meaning Jedi  
> beskar'gam - armor  
> mandokarla - having the *right stuff*, showing guts and spirit, the state of being the epitome of Mando virtue  
> Mand'alor - sole ruler  
> jehaatir- liar (made this one up)  
> ad'ika - little one (also son/daughter/child of any age)  
> aliit - clan, family  
> adiik - child aged 3 to 13  
> darjetiise - plural of darjetii, meaning Sith  
> narudare- plural of narudar, meaning temporary ally - specifically your enemy's enemy, where both sides know this is an alliance of convenience and not a lasting pact. (I figure this is the best term to describe the relationship between the Sith and the Mandalorians, considering that their main goal seems to be defeating the Republic, not cooperation.)  
> jare'la - asking for it  
> di'kutla- idiotic  
> dini'la - insane, crazy  
> mir'sheb - smartass  
> luubid - enough  
> su'cuy gar - hello, lit. you're still alive


	5. Jango & Anakin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the wait! I've been pretty busy these past few weeks with academic and family stuff. I also had a touch of rapid-onset writer's block that I hope this chapter might clear up. Please let me know if there's anything that you don't understand in the chapter and I'll try to fix it or clear it up in the comments. Also if my Mando'a is off or if there's a better word/phrase I could use.
> 
> Fun fact about Mando'a: the possessive canonically comes after the word it modifies. For example, the song "Gra'tua Cuun" is translated as "our vengeance."
> 
> Also, Anakin is bad about pronoun etiquette because he was raised on a Hutt-owned planet, and good manners aren't exactly shown to slaves. He's still learning.
> 
> Jango's attitude towards Obi-Wan is... not super great in this chapter. He's pissed off at the jetii and thus treated him very poorly and doesn't feel that torn up about it, which I think is in-character, but he'll get better and he won't be torturing Obi again, I promise. Mandalorian prejudice against the Jedi and the common misconception/stereotype that they are "unfeeling" both physically and emotionally also played a role. (Jedi are often very composed even when in horrific pain, so I'm guessing that there's a belief in the galaxy that they can somehow dull their ability to feel it. They don't, but they CAN use the Force to do amazing things long after a non Force sensitive would be incapacitated.) He sees him as an enemy who is actively hurting his father and he responds in kind. He WILL get better in the future, I promise. Their relationship, like in Integration, will be extremely unhealthy but ultimately happy and affectionate, not physically or verbally abusive.

“Jango,” Jaster said sharply, and Jango sighed before he turned away from Effao, who was in charge of returning his fibercord whip once the medics untangled it from the drugged jetii sprawled across the stretcher.

“Go on, I want to talk to my ad alone,” Jaster ordered his entourage, and Effao visibly wilted at the prospect of missing out on a Fett family dispute. (His advisors liked to make bets on the outcomes, which they thought Jango didn’t know about. It was annoying but harmless, but right now they needed to present a strong united front.) Jango tapped his vambrace against hers in thanks, took the stack of bacta patches a medic offered him, and stood beside his buir until the jetii and his chaperones were around the corner.

“Give those here, I’ll help you with them,” Jaster said, gesturing for the bacta bandages, and Jango handed them over without argument. They stood in silence while Jaster covered the bruises on his neck and his hands, Jango studying his buir’s displeased face for any sign of Force tampering and coming up empty.

Eventually he stepped back, and said, “What was that osik I caught you doing to my sponsee?”

“I caught him about to break into the foundlings’ quarters. I stopped him.”

“You did a lot more than that,” Jaster snapped. “You were torturing an immobilized integrator for no reason, not defending children. You went too far.”

“He’s a jetii, he can take it. Aruetii could have killed me with his Force powers, so I incapacitated him and interrogated him,” Jango said, making an effort not to raise his voice. That could wait until they were less likely to be overheard.

“Interrogated him about _what_ , Jango? The Republic? I thought the whole point of the integration program is to get him to turn on them _willingly_ , not under duress.”

 _About_ you, _you di’kut,_ Jango wanted to say, but that also had to wait. He didn’t want anyone to accuse his buir of being compromised without solid proof. Even himself.

“About what he’s trying to pull by escaping and going after foundlings, for one,” he grit out instead. 

“His ad is a foundling, that should be obvious!” Jaster nearly yelled. “I would’ve done far worse for you, ad’ika. You’re lucky he didn’t kill you.”

Jango scoffed even as his mind flickered to how distraught the jetii had been when he swore to never use the Force to choke him again, even as he struggled so desperately to reach the foundlings. How desperate he had been to get to the jetii’ka—Anakin, he’d called him. 

There had been tears in his eyes.

“He’s a jetii, buir. They don’t feel like we do,” Jango said instead, shoving down his uncertainty to be dealt with later. The jetii had most likely been acting—look how quickly he’d bounced back once Jaster came on the scene. He’d been biding his time, and Jango would be a fool to fall for it. 

“I can’t speak for all jetii,” Jaster said after a moment, “but I can guarantee this one loves his ad more than he loves himself. I wouldn’t have sponsored him, otherwise. And if he fails the program…” Jaster hesitated, as if reluctant, but then his expression hardened. “If he fails, I’ll take responsibility for my failure and kill him myself.”

Jango didn’t know how to respond. He had never known his father to lie, but he had also never known his father to hesitate, to be reluctant to do what was necessary. 

Was it possible to fight a mind trick?

The door to the foundlings’ quarters opened, and a wide-eyed minder named Togg Tor looked to them in an obvious plea for help.

“Jii nayc,” Jaster murmured, then strode inside to deal with the fallout of the escape, Jango at his heels.

“‘Alor! Ven’alor! Thank you for defending us,” the Gran said with mingled relief and anxiety. “What happened? There was a-an incident with the newest foundling, was it related?” 

“What incident? Kaysh kadala?” Jaster demanded.

“He used the F-force to float things in the classroom, then became distraught and shoved me away when I tried to bring him back to the dorm. He started some sort of wind storm to keep us away from him, but then he just stopped for no reason and collapsed a minute or two later. We isolated him to keep him from hurting the other adiike, but now he won’t wake up.” The Gran was obviously distraught, their ears flapping and antennae trembling. “He was emotional when he woke up earlier, but nothing like what happened during the containment breach. Did something happen?”

“Bring me to him,” Jaster ordered, just as worried as the Gran. His buir had always been protective of the foundlings, but this seemed almost personal. Just what was going on? 

Jango would join him later. He needed to check on the adiike first. They must be frightened. 

When he stepped into the dorm, he was tackled by a number of excited, chattering foundlings, all talking a mile a minute.

“Ba’vodu, why didn’t you visit sooner?”

“What happened?”

“Did someone escape?”

“Why are you wearing bacta patches? And why’s your beskar’gam dented?”

“Did you get in a fight? Did you win??”

“Udesii, adike, one at a time,” Jango laughed, gently prying the foundlings off. “Everything’s been taken care of. An morut'yc. Bid kotir gar an!”

“Ba’vodu Jango, ba’vodu Jango,” Sylia said, the little Kiffar clinging stubbornly to his greaves despite his best efforts, “What happened? Is Anakin okay? Nayc solus rejorhaa'ir ni mayen!”

“Ori’jate Mando’a, Syli’ka!” Jango said, scooping her up and throwing her in the air as a reward despite the vehement protests of his sore muscles. Wayii, the jetii had really done a number on him. She squealed in delight, green facial tattoos stretching with her wide grin, but would not be deterred. 

“I’ve been practicing, ba’vodu! But where’s Anakin? Kaysh morut'yc balyc?”

“Udesiir jii,” Jango reassured her. “He’s had a rough day. But you made friends fast, eh?”

“Nay’guuror ni,” Vliino lamented, Mando’a coming more easily to him than Basic, which wasn’t his mother tongue to begin with. The Rodian considered himself much too mature to tackle the Ven’alor, even if to the foundlings he was ba’vodu Jango, and was instead building a pillow fort with his friends. He laughed delightedly when Jango plunked his oversized helmet on his head to cheer him up.

“Anakin doesn’t like anyone right now, but he’ll come ‘round. He’s adjusting,” a minder assured the foundlings, backing Jango up.

“Guuror _ni_ ,” Sylia claimed smugly. “I watched him for adat’juri when he was sleeping!” She yelped when Jango gently dropped her on a bed for teasing Vliino.

“The prisoner who escaped has been caught. He won’t be escaping again,” Jango promised to the room at large, using Basic so that even the newest foundlings would be able to understand. “Anakin is a j—...a Force user, so he got a little too worked up. We’re keeping him separate for now so he won’t accidentally hurt anyone. Everything’s all right.”

There was a knock on the door, and then Tor warbled nervously, “Um, Ven’alor, ‘Alor is calling for you. Anakin is awake.”

“Suvari,” Jango said, snapping to attention, and then turned to Vliino, who had built an entire pillow keldab in the interim, and was now fending off intruders. “I’ll need my buy’ce back, verd’ika.”

-

Anakin was no stranger to Force burnout. He pushed himself too far, too soon, according to Obi-Wan, who was forever fretting about how his power in the Force might hurt him. It was kind of annoying to be kept on bedrest when he went too far, especially when his master was allergic to taking it easy himself, but burnout felt so terrible that he only ever complained a little bit. Thirty minutes, tops.

But now he felt fine. He had a bit of a headache, sure, but nothing like what he was used to. He kind of felt like he did after a day in the salle learning saberplay, like his connection to the Force was a muscle he’d flexed and stretched rather than torn. His mental state was better, too—Anakin took a long time to calm down after he got angry, but right now he was almost as calm as he was on the rare occasions when Obi-Wan convinced him to meditate with him. Obi-Wan always made him feel better.

He reached for their connection to show a quick flash of gratitude (his master had earned it, after all), and everything came crashing back when he found it stretched thin and silent.

Anakin shot upright, finding himself tucked into yet another bed. A Mandalorian without a helmet was sitting in a chair nearby, watching him. His face was creased and battle-hardened, but his deep brown eyes were warm. He seemed familiar.

“How are you feeling, Anakin?” he asked, leaning forward a bit. His smile reminded Anakin of Qui-Gon’s.

“...’m fine,” Anakin said warily. “What happened?”

“I was hoping you could tell me that,” the Mandalorian said gently. “Adat’juri Togg tells me you got upset and used the Force on them.”

“They deserved it,” Anakin said, then fidgeted for a moment. “...Did I hurt them?”

“No, ad’ika, just shook them up a bit. We were all very worried about you fainting. We thought you were taken by the Force.”

“I didn’t _faint,_ ” Anakin insisted, feeling his face turn warm. He wasn’t a _girl._

...Well, okay, he couldn’t imagine someone like Padme or his mom fainting for no reason, but still. Fainting in the middle of a fight was embarrassing! Obi-Wan would never let him out of his sight again!

Oh. Right. They took Obi-Wan away. Obi-Wan wasn’t _allowed_ to see him.

“Where’s my master?!” Anakin demanded. The anger wasn’t as overwhelming as before, but it was starting to come back, albeit slowly. The calm that Obi-Wan always gave him wrapped around his emotions like a blanket, comforting and soft, and he was still tired from earlier. It felt nice, but it wasn’t helpful.

“He’s been brought to the medics. He got a little banged up when he tried to escape,” the Mandalorian explained. “Your buir must love you a lot, huh?”

“He’s not my buir,” Anakin said. “An’—an’ he’s not attached to me. Jedi aren’t s’posed to be attached.” He settled a bit, twisting the blanket he’d been covered with anxiously between his fingers. “Is he okay? Did he get hurt bad? Is it my fault?”

“Why would it be your fault, verd’ika?”

A million reasons pushed at his lips, but he stilled at that last word. _Verd’ika._ Anakin didn’t know what it meant, but the way he said it sounded familiar. 

A knife flashing towards his face. A blur of beige as his master threw himself in front of it. Blood soaking through his tunics. Strong arms trembling with pain as they held him, a hilt protruding from his gut— 

_“Don’t touch that, verd’ika. It will make him bleed worse if you do.”_

“You’re the one who hurt my master,” Anakin said, his calm evaporating slowly but surely. He hadn’t recognized him without the helmet.

The Mandalorian leaned towards the entrance of the tiny room they were in, and said to someone outside that Anakin couldn’t see, “Ve’ganir Jango.” Then he firmly shut the door. “Your buir is receiving medical treatment right now, Anakin. He’ll be okay, I swear it.”

“I don’t care,” Anakin snapped, throwing back the covers. He went to slide off the bed, but thought better of it when he got dizzy. The Force, which had been so easy to grasp a little while ago, was just out of reach, the connection almost as strained as his bond with Obi-Wan, but not painful in the way it typically was after burnout. “You were s’posed to let him _go._ ”

“We couldn’t just separate a buir from his ad,” the Mandalorian said firmly. “That wouldn’t be right.”

“Then why won’t anyone let me see him?!” Anakin wailed, tears stinging his eyes. “And he’s _not_ my _buir!_ ”

The door slammed open, and another Mandalorian in full armor strode in.

The first Mandalorian—the Mand’alor—didn’t spare him a glance. “You’ll see him soon, ad’ika, I promise. Once it’s safe for you both. Once he’s earned it.”

“B-but I wanna see him _now!_ ” Anakin screamed. “I promised I’d be a slave again if you helped him, and I’ll be an extra good slave if you let me see him, _please!_ ” He started sobbing, and using what little Mando’a he could remember from the lesson. “I won’t ever use the Force on you again, gedet’ye, I want Obi-Wan, please, _gedet’ye!_ ”

The Mand’alor moved as if to touch him, face pained, and Anakin recoiled.

“‘Alor,” the other Mandalorian said sharply, “Gev. Kaysh chaabla.”

The Mand’alor sat back, hands raised non-threateningly. He studied Anakin’s face, then nodded sharply, and stood to leave.

“Kaysh baatir,” he said, then shut the door behind him.

The other Mandalorian sat down in the newly vacated chair, hesitated, then removed his helmet and put it at the foot of the bed. He looked different from the Mand’alor, but there was something similar in the set of his mouth, the tilt of his head.

“Hello, Anakin. My name is Jango.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> jetii - Jedi (jetii'ka means padawan)  
> ad - son/daughter/child  
> buir - parent  
> osik - shit  
> Aruetii - outsider, foreigner, traitor (depends on context)  
> di’kut - idiot  
> ad’ika - affectionate way to refer to a kid or to your son/daughter/child, "little one"  
> Jii nayc - not now  
> 'Alor - short for Mand'alor (sole ruler)  
> Ven'alor - future Mand'alor  
> kaysh kadala - is he hurt?  
> adiike - children  
> Ba’vodu - uncle/aunt. Jango used to be ori'vod (big brother) to the other foundings, but he's too old for that now :)  
> beskar’gam - armor  
> Udesii, adike - calm down/relax, guys  
> Nayc solus rejorhaa'ir ni mayen - no one is telling me anything  
> Ori’jate Mando’a, Syli’ka - excellent Mando'a, Sylia (Syli'ka is an affectionate diminutive, like calling someone named Rosa Rosita in Spanish)  
> An morut'yc. Kotir gar an! - All safe. You're all so brave!  
> kaysh morut'yc balyc? - is he safe also?  
> Udesiir jii - [he's] resting now  
> Nay’guuror ni - [he] doesn't like me (Anakin associates all Rodians with Greedo, unfortunately. Poor kid.)  
> guuror ni - [he] likes me  
> Suvari - understood  
> keldab - citadel, stronghold (where Keldabe, the capital city's name, comes from!)  
> buy'ce - helmet  
> verd’ika - in this context it's used as a pet name for a child, lit. "little soldier"  
> Adat’juri - teacher  
> Ve’ganir Jango - get Jango  
> gedet’ye - please  
> Gev. Kaysh chaabla. - Stop. He's afraid.  
> Kaysh baatir - [take] care of/for him.


	6. Jango & Obi-Wan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lmk if you need clarification on anything! 
> 
> The way Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon met Anakin was under slightly different circumstances in this AU, but it won't become relevant unless I decide to write a sequel when Anakin's grown up or something. Basically, they went to Tatooine to try to create a treaty with the Hutts, as the Mandalorians hold a great contempt for Hutts and would never willingly ally themselves to those they see as dishonorable cowards. (The Sith prefer a culture that practically worships violence to a criminal syndicate of slug drug lords, no matter how rich they are, and so have to keep their dealings with them under the table.) Sidious and Maul were there to sabotage things (and maybe other reasons...), and Sidious ended up barbecuing Qui-Gon to death while Obi-Wan killed Maul for realsies. Obi-Wan barely escaped, with Anakin in tow, and Sidious retreated back to Sith space to lick his wounds and train up another temp apprentice. He's also not emperor atm, because there are a shit ton of other Sith vying for power who are just as Machiavellian as he is.

“I don’t care _what_ your stupid name is,” the kid growled, swiping at his runny nose and sporting an impressive scowl. “What’s wrong with Obi-Wan? Who’s the schutta who hurt him this time?!”

Jango barked out a laugh despite himself at hearing such a foul word from such a cute kid, though he really didn’t like that a child had been in a position to learn it. “That would be me.”

The kid stood up on the bed and launched himself at Jango, who scrambled to keep him from hitting the floor. Once he was secure in Jango’s arms, he started pummeling at him with tiny fists and feet, which Jango would have allowed if he wasn’t worried the kid might break something against all the beskar he was wearing. 

He grabbed the boy’s wrists in one hand and sat him on his lap, holding tight while the kid tired himself out trying to attack him. The yells and snarls soon turned into tired little sobs, and Jango had to restrain himself from hugging the kid lest he get a headbutt for his trouble.

“I just want Obi-Wan,” the child whimpered. “He’s hurt and it’s my fault.”

“Hey,” Jango said sharply, giving him a little shake. “None of this is on you. Understand? If he gets hurt it’s his own karking fault.”

“No, it’s _your_ fault for hurting him!” the kid yelled, and renewed his struggles. Jango groaned and prepared himself for the long haul.

“Listen, kid—”

“My name is Anakin, wermo!”

“Noted, Anakin,” Jango sighed, moving his hand down Anakin’s wrists so that Anakin’s nails wouldn’t draw blood on the sliver of bare skin he’d found between Jango’s gloves and his sleeves. “He got out, attacked a bunch of my people, and I found him trying to break into a place where vulnerable children live. Shabuir gave as good as he got, too. I did what I had to to protect you all.”

Well, not totally. Not after.

Thankfully, Anakin didn’t pull any creepy jetii mind-reading, and calmed down a little. “I want my master.”

“He makes you call him master?” Jango asked, fresh fury mounting in his chest. What kind of chakaar made a child who’d been enslaved do that? He abruptly wished he’d hurt Kenobi worse.

“No!” Anakin cried, though he’d gone tense. “It’s not the same thing. It means he’s my teacher, like I’m his padawan. An’—an’ if I don’t, he never gets mad, only the council does, ‘cause they think if Obi-Wan lets me it means he’s attached and I’m disrespectful, but I’m _not_ and Obi-Wan doesn’t think so, so I don’t care what they think at all.” He hiccupped a little. “I _don’t._ ”

They sat in silence for a few moments, Jango rubbing gently at Anakin’s trembling back, and Anakin let him.

“You don’t have to call anyone master here,” Jango said. “You don’t have to live with a family you don’t like, or spend time with people you don’t like. You’ll never be a slave here. We want you to be happy.”

“I don’t like any of you,” Anakin said. “I want to be a Jedi an’ be with my ma— with _Obi-Wan_ because I love him, even if he doesn’t love me, b-because Jedi aren’t supposed to have attachments—” 

Jango suddenly knew, with every fiber of his being, that that wasn’t true. He didn’t know anything about all this attachment osik, but he’d seen the jetii fight, seen his desperation to reach this kid. Jaster had been telling the truth; the jetii loved the boy more than he loved himself. But what use was that, if Anakin didn’t _know?_

So Jango said nothing, and eventually Anakin relaxed, tired out by two outbursts in rapid succession.

“I still hate you,” he mumbled, and Jango chuckled.

“I know, ad’ika.”

When he emerged from the foundlings’ quarters, leaving Anakin dozing on the bed, he found Effao and Threl waiting for him. Effao was grinning widely, Jango’s fibercord whip in her hand, and he knew the reason why when he saw the stew splattered all over Threl’s front.

“It’s not funny,” Threl insisted. There was a bit of carrot caught in his facial hair that he apparently hadn’t noticed yet. “The jetii jumped up on the table and _stomped_ in it! It had to be on purpose!”

“It’s a little funny,” Effao replied, breathless in a way that suggested she’d been cackling at him for quite a while.

“It is,” Jango agreed, taking the fibercord that she’d thoughtfully wound back up for him and putting it back into his gauntlet. “Where’s my buir?”

“Supervising cleanup in the commissary,” Threl said sourly. “At least _you_ don’t laugh at me, Alor’ad. He sure did.”

Jango grinned despite himself, which set off another round of Effao’s snickering and Threl’s whining. He left the terrible twosome to it, making a mental note to comm Akkus. He needed to talk to zir about caring for a Force sensitive kid.

As he passed the crack in the floor from their fight, his thoughts went back to the jetii. It was… difficult to imagine him putting his ad at risk by doing something as dangerous as infiltrating the Mandalorian empire, though maybe he’d just seized the chance when he realized he was on the Mand’alor’s ship. Maybe Anakin’s devotion was less due to the jetii showing him kindness and more because the Jedi Temple was a better alternative to slavery. He just didn’t have enough information to make a sound judgement, and perhaps that had made him… a little hasty.

His eye caught on a puddle of blood on the floor. His fingers twitched. He remembered what the jetii had looked like with tears in his eyes, how fiercely he fought to reach his child. How he’d had Jango at his mercy, and spared his life without a second thought once he saw his face.

Jango didn’t know how to feel about finding a jetii beautiful.

-

Obi-Wan woke to a pounding headache, unable to smell anything but the bacta drying in his hair and plastered over his nose. Thankfully, a headache hurt a lot less than a concussion, though he still felt awful. Perhaps they'd skimped on the bacta?

The Mandalorians were exerting just as much effort wounding him as they were into patching him up afterwards. He was beginning to get mixed signals.

He could sense someone at his bedside, amusement warring with irritation the longer Obi-Wan kept his eyes closed. He eased them open, not particularly eager to sustain more damage for the moment, and winced at the bright light.

“Jate vaartur,” the figure at his side said, and then the lights were dimming to a more manageable intensity.

“Thank you,” Obi-Wan said reflexively, then tensed when he woke up enough to recognize the Force signature of his visitor. Even using his abilities for that much felt like acid on his tender mind. Was this due to his Dark side use, or something else? “What can I do for you, Mand’alor?”

Mereel sat back with an odd little smile. “Nothing immediate, though I’d appreciate it if you put a hold on your escape attempt for now.”

Obi-Wan looked pointedly at the energy strands connecting his cuffs to the hospital bed, which was much more geared towards holding patients in place than anything in the temple’s halls of healing. Even Chief Healer Che would have raised a brow, for all she threatened to strap Obi-Wan down over the years.

“I’m sure you’d think of something eventually, Kenobi. But right now, I’m here to explain a few things and answer any questions you might have. I don’t remember Wudo’s little spiel very well, but—” 

Obi-Wan listened with a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach as Mereel (very) roughly outlined what the integration program was and how it would work. Curiously, Mereel seemed almost as unfamiliar with the process as Obi-Wan, disdain on his features as he spoke.

“Right. I probably won’t be able to answer them, but any questions?”

Obi-Wan asked immediately, “What will happen to Anakin while I am… undergoing this process?” 

Mereel smiled, satisfaction and vindication swelling in the Force for reasons that escaped Obi-Wan. His emotions, even though they were positive, felt like sandpaper on his senses. “Anakin will be integrating as well, of course. He’ll be part of the foundling program at first, though that will change as time goes on.”

“But what will _happen_ to him?” Obi-Wan stressed, trying and failing to suppress his rising alarm. “Who will look after him? Will he be harmed if he resists?”

“Absolutely not,” Mereel said firmly. “You have my word that I’ll kill any aruetii who hurts a child myself.” Obi-Wan relaxed despite himself at the conviction in his words and in the Force. He shouldn’t be glad to hear that Mereel was so willing to take a life, but if it was to protect Anakin…

But look where that had gotten him. He’d used the Dark side, had nearly killed a man who, now that he could think more clearly, had probably been trying to protect children. From _him._

Mereel ploughed onwards, though his dark eyes were sharp as he watched him. “Like the other foundlings, he will be taught our language and culture, and eventually taken in by a clan.”

Obi-Wan shut his eyes. “You intend to take him away from me.” His voice was trembling, and he couldn’t tell if it was from pain or rage. He might be able to manage an escape on his own, but he couldn’t leave without his padawan. 

“No, we don’t.” Mereel’s voice was frank, matter-of-fact, but when Obi-Wan’s eyes shot open, he was smiling. “We’re integrating _both_ of you. I sponsored you because I was impressed by your bond, what you would do for each other. I won’t take a child from a parent who loves them so much. You’ll be joining the same clan once you reach the final stage of integration.”

For once, Obi-Wan was struck dumb. He loved Anakin, of course he did, but his Fall during his escape suggested that he had become attached, and that attachment had _hurt_ his padawan. Anakin might very well be better off without him.

And yet, he was too selfish to admit it. He truly was as doomed to Fall as Master Qui-Gon had said when he was still an initiate. The only reason that he had entrusted Anakin’s training to Obi-Wan was because there was no other option. He’d told him frankly that he planned to cut their apprenticeship short once they returned to Coruscant, but the Sith had killed him before he could.

“...I’m not his father,” Obi-Wan rasped at last, digging his nails into his palms. “His mother gave him up to the Order when he was nine. I am simply his teacher.”

“Aliit ori'shya tal'din, Kenobi,” Mereel said, putting a hand on his shoulder and ignoring his flinch. His smile was achingly similar to Qui-Gon Jinn’s. “My own son is kir'maniyc, as well. You love him, you’re raising him. He’s your child.”

“He’s my student,” Obi-Wan insisted, and was ignored.

The Mand’alor stood and stretched, bones popping loudly, still with that smile that Obi-Wan couldn’t bear to look at for too long. In that moment, he missed his training bond with Qui-Gon like a severed limb. His mind still hadn’t fully healed from having it wrenched out upon his death, and the wound was newly inflamed, as if it had happened days ago instead of nearly two years.

“Well, I’ve got to go deal with your trail of destruction now,” Mereel said tiredly, though Obi-Wan could feel his amusement like nails in his brain. “I’m surprised you didn’t kill anyone, but you did bruise a lot of egos. I need to step up my commandos’ training if they can’t manage to subdue a sentient without any weapons.”

“I don’t intend to kill any of you if I can help it,” Obi-Wan admitted, not meeting his eyes as a wave of shame and self-loathing overcame him at the memory of what he’d almost done. “I came closer than I feel comfortable with, but I… it’s not the Jedi way. I only kill to defend myself or innocents who cannot fight back.”

“That’s good, Kenobi,” said Mereel, “because I don’t want to have to kill you, either.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anakin thinks attachment and love are the same thing here :( they very much are not, but he's not well versed enough in Jedi culture and love languages to know how much Obi-Wan loves him. 
> 
> The Council also doesn't know that Anakin used to be enslaved, because, like in TPM, it conveniently slipped Qui-Gon's mind to tell anyone that he won his brand new Chosen One by betting on a pod race, and Obi-Wan just sort of assumes that he mentioned the slavery thing when he was giving the council status updates on the treaty and his new padawan-to-be because WHY THE HELL WOULDN'T HE. (Obi knows about the slavery because he met Shmi when she entrusted her son to him after Qui-Gon died, unlike in the film. We never actually see or hear about Qui-Gon or Padme telling anyone that this poor kid was just freed from slavery?? By getting BET on like a racehorse????)
> 
> Jate vaartur - good morning  
> aruetii - traitor, outsider (depends on context)  
> Aliit ori'shya tal'din - Family is more than blood  
> kir'maniyc - adopted. Derived from kir'manir, which means to adopt/"give a soul" to someone  
> schutta - Huttese for bitch/slut/whore. (Anakin doesn't actually know what it means, just that it's a bad word.)  
> wermo - Huttese for 1. A stupid person, an idiot. 2. One who is pitiable, contemptible, or weak-willed. 3. Worm. 4. slang. Boy.  
> Shabuir - asshole/motherfucker/other strong insult of your choice  
> chakaar - scumbag, lowlife  
> osik - shit  
> ad’ika - little one  
> buir - parent  
> Alor’ad - captain/pun meaning "child of the Mand'alor"  
> ad - child/son/daughter


	7. Jaster & Jango

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooooo this chapter fought me a lot. I've had a hell of a time over the past few weeks. I live in an American city that was occupied by the military after the murder of George Floyd so I've been busy protesting. (Yelling at heavily armed soldiers about 3rd amendment rights over 200 years after the English pulled this same bullshit was a trip, let me tell you.) I also sliced my hand open a week ago, which makes typing painful, though thankfully it finally closed up yesterday so I don't have to get stitches. ALSO also, I lost a family member a few days ago. It's been an interesting June.
> 
> Not totally satisfied with how this turned out, but view it as a stepping stone, I guess? Next chapter should delve into Obi and Ani's integration funtimes! I'm sure they'll enjoy themselves.

“Buir,” Jango called, and Jaster sighed. He recognized _that_ tone.

He turned his gaze from the mess hall cleanup operations to his approaching ad, who was wearing a calm, inscrutable expression that Jaster still had no idea where he’d learned. It certainly hadn’t come from _him_ ; one of the perks of wearing a helmet everywhere was that he could smile or frown whenever he felt like it. But being a father also had its perks; after twenty five years together, Jaster had learned to read Jango like a holobook. He could tell from the murkiness of his eyes and the crease between his brows that Jango was conflicted, and angry about being conflicted, and that he had found some convoluted way to blame it partially or wholly on Jaster.

“You came here straight from the foundlings?” Jango asked, with a distinctly interrogative edge.

“I visited my sponsee first. Had to check his condition after your stunt in the hallway,” Jaster replied pointedly. 

He could almost feel Jango go tense beside him. He’d touched a nerve, somehow; his ad was conflicted about Kenobi, then, but Jaster had already assumed as much. Jango rarely second guessed himself, even when Jaster would prefer that he did, but there was something going on here that was bigger than that. He was just too exhausted to figure out _what._

“We should continue our discussion from earlier,” Jango said abruptly, and Jaster reluctantly agreed. He’d been enjoying watching the many imbeciles who had failed to even slow Kenobi down clean up his mess; it would be a good lesson for the next time some enterprising integrator made a run for it.

He quickly deputized a human whose face still had tear tracks arising from the hot sauce Kenobi had splashed in it (though he sincerely doubted her blustering claims that Kenobi had taken the time to pin her down, unscrew a bottle, and pour it directly in her eyes), and followed his ad from the room.

“Well?” he asked, but Jango didn’t slow.

“We can talk in your quarters. Give you a chance to sit down; you’ve been on your feet all day.”

Jaster winced; their quarters were soundproofed, and the pair of them regularly combed the place for bugs, so this was either about something important that he did not have the energy or inclination to deal with at the moment, or his ad planned on yelling loud enough to burst a blood vessel. He had a hunch it might be both, judging from how anyone who tried to approach them took one look at Jango’s body language and scarpered. 

As soon as the door closed behind them, Jaster made a beeline for his storage closet, where he kept his trophies. Looting fallen foes was not as common as it used to be, but in this he was a traditionalist. His collection was more extensive than most—he had a variety of unique weapons and traditional garb, including a Kaleesh bone mask and a Wookiee bandolier. On the top shelf rested nine kad’ause; he set Kenobi’s and Anakin’s beside them, noting the similarities in casing with a twitch of the lips. A wave of nostalgia hit, and he smiled more openly at the memory of a much younger Jango swaggering in with newly-forged beskar’gam that looked just like his own, save the blue paint. 

He didn’t normally take trophies from sentients he hadn’t killed (which was why he didn’t have any keepsakes from another Mandalorian), but he could always return them once Kenobi was fully integrated. 

In the interim Jango had settled on the stained, beaten up couch he’d ruined as an adiik, which Jaster had never had the heart to get rid of. Jaster joined him and began the long process of removing and oiling his armor, content to spend time with his ad despite the argument he knew was coming.

Jaster was, admittedly, a little lonely at times; Mando’ade ran in packs, and Jaster and Jango were a pack of two. Jaster had neither the desire nor the inclination to ever find a riduur, and had many loyal burc’yase he loved and appreciated, but nothing could stand in for aliit. He hadn’t realized just how deeply he had missed such things until he adopted Jango, nor had he realized how uneasy his solus Kyr’oya’kar status made his people until he wasn’t one anymore. 

And now Jango was going down the same path. Not according to his own preferences, as Jaster had after the loss of the Mereel clan; his ad had a high libido and was more than willing to indulge it, as Jaster could unfortunately attest to (the constant nighttime guests were one of the reasons why Jango had moved out), and he knew his son was a closet romantic no matter how strongly he denied it. Unlike his aromantic-asexual buir, Jango just had _very_ high standards, in romance and in everything else. He was not the sort to court without the end goal of entering a riduurok. It was also why Jango had taken so long to adopt, despite his dearly held wish to become a parent; he wanted his child to have more love and support than he alone could give.

Part of that was on Jaster; he’d already been Mand’alor once he adopted Jango, and he’d had to balance his responsibilities between his child and his people equally. Thrava and a few other advisors had stood in as honorary bavoduse, but he knew it hadn’t made up for a lack of aliit bonds.

Perhaps that was why Jaster liked Kenobi so much already; he knew how it felt to raise a talented, angry son on his own. He could recognize another solus Kyr’oya’kar, cut off from the pack and loving their pup even more fiercely because of it. Integrating would be good for them both.

“You should avoid being around Kenobi,” Jango stated without preamble.

Jaster didn’t bother to look up from his beskar’gam. “And why is that?”

“He’s a jetii—” 

“ _Former_ jetii.” 

“—and he could mind trick you if you aren’t careful.”

“Except he never had the chance,” Jaster pointed out. “My guards were right outside the medical wing. The medic on duty was in the next room. And even if I was alone with him, the entire kriffing wing has holocams everywhere.” He felt a smug smile tug at his lips. “You can talk to them if you want. After the conversation they heard, they can vouch for Kenobi’s character almost as much as I can.” 

Jaster wasn’t blind to how uneasy his people felt about having a former jetii in the heart of their empire; that was why it was important to showcase Kenobi’s mandokar at every conceivable opportunity—though Kenobi was already doing a fine job of it. His guards had been whispering furiously amongst themselves after Jaster left his sponsee to rest, and he’d been able to tell they’d wanted to pester him about it. He’d brought the nosiest ones along on purpose, after all.

“He _did_ have the chance, buir,” Jango insisted, eyes hard, a muscle ticking in his jaw. “On his ship, while you were fighting him. He’s dangerous.”

“But he didn’t take it,” Jaster snapped. “He was a little preoccupied with the knife in his gut. And even then, he was only focused on Anakin’s safety.”

His son hesitated at that, the confliction from earlier darting across his face, but his head had taken on that same stubborn tilt that had drawn Jaster to him in the first place. “We can’t know that he didn’t. He’s a liability and we need to get rid of him.”

“You doubt my word, Jango?” Jaster growled, setting down his beskar’gam altogether and rising to his feet. “Not only that, but you would have me become an oathbreaker? I swore to Anakin and Kenobi that I would help them.”

“You don’t have to be an oathbreaker,” Jango said, standing as well. “I can do it in your place.”

“So instead you want to make me a nay’jaat hut’uun,” Jaster murmured, glaring hard into his ad’s amber eyes. Jango had always been more pragmatic, more ruthless, but his buir’s honor was not his to protect, nor was it his to take. “I won’t abandon my responsibility to Kenobi, and I am no jehaatir. Ba’slanar, before I lose my temper.”

For a second, Jaster expected Jango to keep arguing—he certainly had in the past. But Jango stepped back, anger warring with something less certain on his face, and left without another word.

\- 

Jango was not a big believer in anger for anger’s sake. He’d spent enough time as a foundling burning himself out with unfocused rage to know how utterly pointless it was, and Jaster had taught him how to channel his passion into pursuing his goals, whatever they may be. He threw himself wholly into tasks, whether it was killing an enemy, pleasing a bedmate, or becoming the best damn Mand’alor since Tarre kriffing Vizsla.

So he didn’t punch a hole in the wall outside his buir’s quarters, but it was a near thing. He also didn’t hunt down the jetii to finish up the interrogation that Jaster had interrupted, but that was more because he didn’t like how easy it was for Kenobi to push him off balance. He still vividly remembered how he had looked on the floor, tied down and struggling against the fibercord whip, throwing back his head and laughing with blood on his face. It had exposed the pale expanse of his throat, and Jango had caught himself thinking about what it might look like bruised.

The jetii was clearly dangerous in more ways than one.

So instead, Jango did something more productive: he went to his quarters to comm Akkus.

“Elek, ‘Alor?” Akkus answered, perfectly respectful in tone but still projecting a longsuffering air.

“Su’cuy, Ven’alor!” Keda, Akkus’s riduur, called from a distance. “Su’cuwy,” echoed Sioth, their child, and Jango felt a pang of envy that he quickly quashed. 

“Su’cuy gar,” Jango said. “Sorry to interrupt. This will be quick, Akkus, you don’t need to come back.”

He heard zem sigh in relief, as well as Keda’s soft laugh and Sioth’s gleeful exclamation. He hated to separate a buir from their ad’ika, and made a mental note to grant Akkus more leave at the next opportunity.

“I need advice for handling a Force sensitive foundling.”

“Ah,” Akkus said diplomatically. Zir son’s Force sensitivity was a touchy subject for zem—it was a constant danger hovering over Sioth’s head, threatening to draw him in so deep that no one would be able to wake him. “You’re talking about the jetii’ka?”

“‘Lek. Anakin,” Jango said, rubbing at the nail marks the little hellion left on his wrist. “Sioth lifts things sometimes, right? He ever shove you with it?”

“He tried, when he was younger and more prone to tantrums, I think,” Keda mused. “It felt more like a tap or a breeze than a push, and it always tired him out.”

“Anakin apparently pushed Togg Tor off their feet when he was agitated,” Jango said, approving of the boy’s grit despite himself. “He also stopped anyone else from getting near him. I’d like to keep him from doing that outside of combat training. Not a lot of clans will be equipped to take him in, otherwise.”

“You sound invested in this child,” Akkus replied. “Why not take him in yourself?”

Jango was silent for a moment, a bit surprised by the wave of longing that overtook him at the suggestion. “Anakin needs to go to a larger clan. He’s integrating with his jetii buir.”

“And if his buir fails?” Akkus pressed.

Jango paused. He really did like the kid, and under different circumstances he would have almost certainly adopted him, but he didn’t like to think of Anakin losing an admittedly dedicated and loving buir. Jango had been in that position at around the same age, and he wouldn’t wish it on any child. 

As for Kenobi… well. There was a reason he was talking to Akkus rather than taking the time to gather his thoughts about the jetii. 

“...Nakar’mir.”

Keda tactfully stepped in to change the subject. “Cyare, I think you should meet Anakin. If he’s a jetii’ka, he’s had some training in the Force. We might be able to learn a little for Sioth’s sake.”

“Wanna meet An’ika too!” Sioth announced, and Akkus laughed.

“Maybe, ad’ika, once he’s settled in a little. I’m sure that boy could use a friend.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jaster and Jango finally talked about mind tricks! Of course, they had a fight about it because Mandalorian family life must be... interesting... when their culture values conflict and reviles peace, lol. Teenage Jango must've been a nightmare. 
> 
> Keep in mind that Jaster has more experience with Jedi than Jango does at this juncture ;) He's killed at least 9 in single combat, but who knows how many he's fought? It's probably in the double digits. He was a commando on the front lines for around 2 decades before he became Mand'alor.
> 
> Buir - parent  
> ad - son/daughter/child  
> kad’ause - lightsabers  
> beskar’gam - armor  
> adiik - child between 3 and 13  
> Mando’ade - Mandalorians  
> riduur - spouse/mate  
> burc’yase - friends  
> aliit - family/clan  
> solus Kyr’oya’kar - lone wolf. Mandalorian wolves and their cultural significance are Super Cool and you should check out the lore on them if you have the time :)  
> riduurok - love bond, specifically between spouses - marriage agreement  
> bavoduse - aunts/uncles (gender neutral term would be auncle? unt?)  
> jetii - Jedi  
> mandokar - the *right stuff*, the epitome of Mando virtue - a blend of aggression, tenacity, loyalty and a lust for life  
> nay’jaat hut’uun - honorless coward (made up the first word as a combo of nayc and ijaat)  
> jehaatir - liar (made this up too)  
> Ba’slanar - leave  
> Elek, ‘Alor? - yes, leader?  
> Su’cuy, Ven’alor - hi, future Mand'alor  
> Su’cuy gar - Hello - lit. *You're still alive.*  
> ad’ika - little one, son, daughter, child of any age  
> jetii’ka - padawan (made this up too)  
> Lek - yeah  
> Nakar’mir - don't know  
> Cyare - beloved


	8. Obi-Wan & Jaster

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait. IRL is bullshit. I've been trying to fill the gap by polishing and transferring some of my ffn stuff, but I don't have any Star Wars fics over there :(
> 
> I've also been made aware that I'm not doing as good a job with Jango as I could so I promise I'll try to fix that moving forward! Please lmk if he's working for you guys in this chapter. (He's being a total asshole, but I hope it's clearer WHY he's doing that lol)

Obi-Wan was knocked out again without warning after Mereel took his leave. By the time he noticed what was happening his eyes were already closed, numb fingers fumbling uselessly with his intravenous line.

When he woke up there was a collar around his neck and he couldn’t feel the Force at all.

He sat up with a gasp, panic flushing his veins of residual sedatives almost as effectively as the Force might have, though he suspected this cocktail had been calibrated to his biology considering its efficacy. 

Obi-wan scratched uselessly at the collar, unable to choke back a whine. His mind still felt raw and tender despite being severed from the Force, and he had no way of releasing his emotions to soothe himself. Memories he’d long since suppressed shoved their way forward until he was reliving the sensations they carried with them—an explosive slave collar from Bandomeer constricted his windpipe— 

“Gev,” someone snapped, pulling his nails from his neck. “Cuyi tal, utreekov!” 

“‘Alor,” someone else said reproachfully, and set a grounding hand on his back. “Udesii. Calm down.”

Obi-Wan took a few more quick breaths before the reality of the situation quickly reasserted itself. He was arguably in worse straits _now_ than he’d been on Bandomeer, though thankfully here there wasn’t the immediate threat of being tossed off a deepsea mining platform. The hand thankfully fell from his back as soon as he got ahold of himself.

“I apologize,” he said, trying and failing to keep the tremble from his voice as he sat up straight and met the eyes of his captors.

It was Fett, the Mandalorian who’d put him in their medical wing in the first place. Of course it was Fett. His close aides were all there too, because the galaxy had never seen fit to let Obi-Wan suffer in relative dignity. They were just yet more sentients to measure him and find him wanting in the long line of them that had come before. 

“What was _that_ about?” a human with a goatee asked, and was none-too-gently elbowed in the side by their redheaded companion.

“An… adverse reaction to being cut off from the Force. But I understand the necessity of it, given the circumstances,” Obi-Wan said, glancing at Fett’s throat. His stomach unknotted slightly when he saw that there wasn’t any bruising, though he knew from experience that the Force rarely left marks unless it was channeled into Sith lightning. His fingers crept back up to the collar without his permission, and quickly down again when he saw Fett twitch.

“Any health risks associated?” asked an unfamiliar Esral'sa'Nikto clad in white, who he assumed must be the medic. 

“Primarily psychological,” Obi-Wan hedged, unwilling to admit that prolonged use would cut him off from the Force permanently. “The physical side effects vary depending on the collar, though I’d prefer to receive plenty of warning if you intend to electrocute me so I don’t bite off my tongue. I’m fond of it, you see.” 

That didn’t garner the taunts and banter he’d come to expect from hostage situations. In fact, the medic looked appalled at the implications, though Obi-Wan couldn’t be sure; he relied on the Force to read people more than his physical senses. He reflexively reached out, and felt nothing.

“Wait. Has my padawan been informed of this?” he demanded, finally looking Fett straight in the eyes. “He hasn’t been prepped for a capture scenario behind the basics—he won’t be able to feel me at _all_ , he might think I’ve been killed—” Obi-Wan knew how unsettling a muffled bond could feel, though thankfully it had nothing on the pain caused by a shattered one.

Fett’s unreadable mask finally lifted slightly at that. “The foundlings are still asleep at this hour, but Threl will send a comm informing Anakin’s carers.” The humanoid in question started, then opened up his wrist comm and started typing after another helpful beskar-clad elbow screeching across his armor courtesy of his companion.

“He’ll be distressed, he might lash out—please, you have to let me see him, I’m no threat to anyone like this—”

“No,” Fett countered. “If you want to see your ad, you’ll have to earn it.”

“Anything,” Obi-Wan said, “I’ll do anything.”

“Yeah?” Fett asked, mouth twisting sharply around the words, “Then tell me everything you know about the Mandalorian front. Supplies, strategies, ships, combatants.”

Obi-Wan bit the inside of his cheek. “You know I can’t—”

“Then tell me how to break a mind trick,” Fett growled, leaning into his space. 

Obi-Wan did not allow himself to flinch. “You can’t _break_ a mind trick, that’s not how it works.”

“Then tell me how it _does_ ,” he snarled.

Obi-Wan stayed stubbornly silent, even as his insides turned over. He knew his temptation to give up Temple tactics for the chance to soothe his padawan was a sign of attachment, but he couldn’t falter. Lives other than his own might be at stake.

Fett stood, anger in every line of his body. Obi-Wan braced himself for one of those powerful blows, but Fett just turned on his heel, his aides scrambling to follow.

“Wait!” Obi-Wan called, making to stand despite his grogginess. “Whatever happens, please don’t collar Anakin. He’s been through so much already.” In addition to the trauma of enslavement, his padawan might still be affected by Obi-Wan’s Dark side use. If it hurt _him_ this badly, Force only knew what it would do to those bonded to him.

Fett paused. “Anakin is safe with us. Worry about yourself.”

And then he was gone, his aides giving him strange looks over their shoulders as they followed.

“Get cleaned up,” the medic said after he’d collected himself, handing him some clean scrubs and gesturing at a refresher door nearby. “The chaperones will be escorting you to breakfast with the other integrators soon.”

“My thanks, Mx…?”

“Shiza-Dok Tor, she/her/hers,” she said, her smooth voice an interesting contrast to her craggy face. She studied him a moment, contemplative, then said, “My riduur works with the foundlings. They’ll take good care of your ad’ika.”

“Padawan,” Obi-Wan corrected, and was unsurprised when Shiza-Dok ignored him.

“I have to say, we aren’t usually so strict with our new integrators. Especially not families. Your botched escape attempt yesterday must’ve ruffled a few feathers.”

“That wasn’t an escape attempt,” Obi-Wan denied reflexively. His plans weren’t so… unpolished. Reckless, idiotic implusivity was more Vos’s purview.

“I’m sure,” Shiza-Dok snorted.

“I was trying to reach Anakin, my padawan. I was… worried for him, and that made me act without thinking. We haven’t been apart for so long since he first entered my care.”

She softened, giving him the first smile he’d seen all day. “I see.”

“Well,” Obi-Wan said, abruptly uncomfortable. He struggled to his feet, still a little loopy from the drugs. “I’ll just get ready then.”

Obi-Wan spent most of his time in the fresher scraping off dried bacta and blowing it out of his nose, which had healed nicely. The scratches on his neck were shallow thanks to Fett’s intervention, though he had to rub dried blood off the collar, which he assumed was made of beskar from its luster. 

The scrubs were less tight than the Mandalorian outfit, but they bared his arms and clavicle. Obi-Wan found himself longing for a nice shapeless robe to wrap himself in, especially when Shiza-Dok approvingly mentioned that his muscle tone would serve him well in combat classes, even if he was a bit on the skinny side. Her sudden friendliness was not unwelcome, but Obi-Wan had no idea if it was sincere without the Force to aid him. Master Qui-Gon had often told him how he fell short when using the Living Force, and needed to learn to read people to bolster his weakness, but it was comforting to sense the emotions of others, even if his ability to sense intentions outside of visions was lacking.

The guards that came to collect him looked familiar, and the way that they each kept at least one hand on him at all times confirmed it. He contemplated telling them that the suppressant collar would keep him from attempting more evasive acrobatics, but he wanted to play his cards close to the chest.

Besides, he found their abortive lunges whenever he moved too fast amusing.

Obi-Wan’s neck prickled uncomfortably as soon as they stepped into the mess hall. The doors were conspicuously absent. 

Conversation had been muted before he came in, doubtless because of the early hour, but it picked up as more and more Mandalorians got a good look at him. His so-called “chaperones” hustled him through the meal line and towed him to a table that he assumed was filled with other integrators. A few of the bolder ones gave him a sardonic round of applause.

“You’ll get ‘em next time, vod,” a bald human with vitiligo said, clapping him on the shoulder. He took careful note of the casual use of Mando'a.

“How’d you do those kandosii’la flips?” a green Toydarian asked, wings fluttering excitedly. 

“I’m a Jedi Knight,” Obi-Wan answered, and was disappointed but not exactly surprised that the Toydarian and a few others immediately edged away from him. 

The human beckoned him closer, and murmured in his ear, “Better watch out for Zice. He’s pretty Mando by now, but he used to be a Sith.” They gestured at a handsome Pantoran, who Obi-Wan realized with a jolt was already watching him with a piercing yellow gaze. Coming so close to a natural enemy without even realizing it made his skin crawl. He tugged a little at his collar, uncomfortably aware that the Pantoran’s neck was bare.

“Thank you. I am Obi-Wan Kenobi, he/him/his.”

“‘m Koren Ludd. Don’t really give a kriff what pronouns people use for me,” said Koren, already more interested in their breakfast than in him. Obi-Wan nodded in acknowledgement and started eating his own meal, which was much better than cafeteria food had any right to be.

His breakfast was periodically interrupted by Mandalorians coming over to scope out the person that had laid waste to their mess hall yesterday. Some focused on teasing the guards for losing him, others complained about getting a boot in their food, and a few wanted to know if he’d _really_ gotten into a fight with the Ven’alor directly afterwards.

“Aww, Nat’ika, he’s copikla!” one Twi’lek cooed to their friend, and Obi-Wan was mortified to feel his face heat. Even if he didn’t understand the word, he could guess well enough. “To hear you tell it he was Kad Ha'rangir reborn, but look at him, his face is redder than his hair!”

“He wasn’t blushing when he kicked a bowl of tiingilar into my face and nearly stabbed me with my own spoon,” Nat’ika grumbled. Obi-Wan just hunched down further. Koren started snickering.

Obi-Wan was relieved to finally escape the gawking and commentary, though he wasn’t looking forward to beginning the integration process, especially considering that this group seemed to be fairly far along in the process already. Feeling Zice’s stare boring into his back didn’t help matters, and he was nearly sick with worry for Anakin. His padawan was a late riser, but he would be waking soon. Did Fett really intend to keep them apart until Obi-Wan betrayed the Republic? 

Would Obi-Wan be able to stop himself?

Qui-Gon had made it clear before his death that Obi-Wan should prioritize Anakin’s training above all else. But even that paled in comparison to Anakin himself—his bright, kind, clever student. Obi-Wan had promised to raise him, to keep him _safe,_ to _never_ throw him away the way Obi-Wan had been—

No. He needed to get himself under control. His thoughts had been spiraling since his fight with Fett, going to dark places that Obi-Wan had long since sealed over. It was like all the psychological scar tissue he had built up over the years had been torn back open. 

Obi-Wan was supposed to be better than this. He’d been working to be better since he’d first been told he was lacking. He would become better. Anakin deserved better.

Besides, Mereel had clearly indicated that integration did not involve taking children from their parents; had claimed the opposite, in fact. In Mandalorian society, Obi-Wan and Anakin were considered father and son. _Mereel_ considered them father and son.

Obi-Wan could leverage that. 

Perhaps, if he played along—if he pretended to integrate—Mereel would allow him to see Anakin. Fett was effectively the second most powerful being in the Mandalorian empire, but Obi-Wan’s sponsor was the only one who could override him.

-

Several floors away, in the heart of the compound, Jaster had just finished a holocall with Pel Vizsla.

He sighed and sat back, rubbing at his eyes. “So that shabuir is still alive, huh…”

Standing at his back, Thrava Wrilli was vibrating with tension. “We’ll have to up your security again, in case he tries something.”

“Let him come,” Jaster said, a bloodthirsty grin slowly unfurling over his face. “He challenged me and lost even when he was fighting dirty. Even if he does manage to kill me fair and square, no one will believe it. Him coming back into the picture will only push the other clans to back Jango. Pre’s laandyc and a hut’uun. Pel gave him legitimacy. And you know that his return will weaken her hold on Pre.”

“I’m more worried for your _life_ , Jaster,” Thrava said tightly.

“What good is a life if I don’t use it for something?” Jaster asked, then reluctantly returned to his paperwork. “By the way, remind me to have one of my ramikade train the chaperones in how to handle mind tricks. Jango’s been on my shebs about it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Gev_ \- stop  
>  _Cuyi tal, utreekov_ \- [There] is blood, idiot/fool  
>  _Udesii_ \- Calm down/Take it easy  
>  _ad_ \- child  
>  _vod_ \- "mate" or "bro" when used colloquially  
>  _kandosii’la_ \- amazing  
>  _Ven’alor_ \- future Mand'alor  
>  _-'ika_ \- affectionate diminutive when used on someone's name  
>  _copikla_ \- cute/charming. kind of condescending, especially in this context  
>  _Kad Ha'rangir_ \- ancient Mandalorian god of war and change. not really worshiped anymore but a significant figure in Mando mythology. Also a really interesting look at Mandalorian cultural values. Check out the wiki page about them, it's super interesting.  
>  _tiingilar_ \- a very spicy stew popular with Mandalorians  
>  _shabuir_ \- motherfucker/other strong insult of your choice  
>  _laandyc_ \- weak  
>  _hut’uun_ \- coward  
>  _ramikade_ \- supercommandos  
>  _shebs_ \- ass


	9. Anakin & Jaster

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jango: the 11 year old's gonna be a little upset when he wakes up, just to let you know  
> Mandos: one sec *put on full SWAT gear* ok we're ready
> 
> but they're used to angry foundlings trying to hurt them, considering that a lot of their parents get merked by Mandos in the first place

When Anakin awoke, he couldn’t feel his master at all.

A part of him had always resented the necessity of the bond. Anakin didn’t _like_ having someone else in his head, didn’t like when Obi-Wan commented on his emotions or awkwardly tried to soothe them. The other padawans found it comforting, because they’d grown up in a place where their every need could be met without them vocalizing it, where they would never feel alone.

Anakin wasn’t like that. He _hated_ that the other padawans would touch his mind when they tried to make friends. He didn’t _want_ to feel what others felt, when his own emotions were already so intense. And when he projected his own feelings to drown out the constant press of other people’s needs and wants and thoughts, they flinched away from him like he’d _hurt_ them.

Even Obi-Wan had done so, at first. But he got better. In his heart of hearts, when Obi-Wan was fully ensconced in mental shields much firmer than Anakin’s own, he enjoyed knowing that Obi-Wan would never be able to leave him. So long as the bond was there between them, Anakin would never be abandoned.

And now it was gone.

Obi-Wan was gone.

Anakin _screamed._

Soon enough, the door opened, nearly falling off its hinges after the beating he’d given it, and two Mandalorians in full armor burst into the room. Anakin scrambled away, barely able to see them through his tears, throwing pieces of the destroyed bed at them that they barely evaded. 

He tried to push them away with the Force, and they staggered, but kept coming. He tried to take all his rage and grief and pain and use it to _stab_ at their minds, like he’d gotten in trouble with Obi-Wan for attempting during a spar against that koochoo Ferus Olin, but it faltered and slid around them like they were using a Force field. Then they were grabbing him, hands gentle even as he struggled, swaddling him in his torn blankets, so tight that all he could do was wriggle.

Anakin yelled and sobbed and shrieked invective, debris from the bed frame he’d shattered whirling around him like the center of a tornado. The Mandalorians tensed at the sight of it, but didn’t let go, pulling him close and even shielding him with their armored bodies when anything flew too close to him in his efforts to hurt them.

Someone was stroking his hair, dodging his attempts to bite them when their hand brushed the place his padawan braid used to be. “Udesii, ad’ika,” they said, voice shaking with nerves, and Anakin recognized them as Adat’juri Togg. “It’s all right.”

“It’s _not_ ,” Anakin howled. “You killed my master! You said you wouldn’t and then you killed him!”

“Is that what this is about?” the other Mandalorian asked. “He’s not dead, kid.”

“Liar. He’s gone, I can’t feel him, you’re a liar!”

Adat’juri Togg sighed, “My riduur warned me about this. They can’t feel each other if one of them gets collared. It’s some kind of Force thing, according to the jetii.”

“Who’s Ree-door and what are they doing to Obi-Wan? Did he kill him?!”

“ _Riduur_ means mate, and my wife is your buir’s medic at the moment,” Adat’juri Togg said. “I promise you that she will not allow any undue harm to come to him.”

Anakin tried once again to penetrate their mind, to rip the truth from them, but he couldn’t no matter how hard he tried. His mental probe just seemed to dissolve into nothing, the Force backlash stinging like a snapped rubber band.

After a few minutes everything he’d been holding aloft with his own rage dropped to the floor, and Anakin slumped to the side. He’d channeled the Force too much too quickly, and he could already feel the pain typical of Force burnout stabbing behind his eyes. 

Normally, Obi-Wan would help soothe it, but Obi-Wan wasn’t there. Even if they weren’t lying, and he was still alive, he wouldn’t be able to hear Anakin’s cry for help.

“Ad’ika?” Adat’juri Togg said, jostling him a little. “Anakin?”

“Hurts,” Anakin moaned, tears of rage quickly replaced with tears of pain. He didn’t have it in him to be embarrassed. Even the Force couldn’t help mitigate it, when his use of it was what caused the psychic damage. He could feel it swirling around him, but it didn’t feel supportive or apologetic—it felt frustrated. Hungry.

“Kriff,” the other one said, horror in their voice. “What if it takes him? What if the jetii’ke need ori’jetiise to stay alive when this happens?”

That was ridiculous—Anakin wasn’t _weak_ like some kids. He’d burnt himself out more than a few times before he ever met a Jedi, and he’d bounced back every time. The Force wouldn’t take Anakin. It needed him here.

But.... if they _were_ telling the truth about Obi-Wan… and if they really thought Anakin was dying…

Would they take him to see his master?

Anakin made himself go boneless, and slid down the armor of the Mando he’d been leaning on until he landed heavily in their lap, head smacking against a beskar cuisse before they could catch him. Ow. That didn’t help the headache.

“Ani’ka!” Adat’juri Togg cried, hovering over them. The Mando whose lap he was sprawled across held him tightly, one hand rubbing at his back. It felt… nice. It was what his mom used to do for him when he was sick, before he’d left for the Temple. Obi-Wan fussed over him when he burnt out, but Jedi didn’t touch each other much to begin with.

He moaned again, a bit more theatrically, but the two didn’t seem to notice. He rolled his eyes back into his head, bringing on a new wave of tears with the stab of pain that earned him, and mumbled, “Nee’ my masser...”

There was a long, tense moment as the pair of them dithered.

Anakin had to work to hold back a scowl. Fine, if they wanted hardball, he’d play hardball. “Gedet’ye… buir…”

“Call Ven’alor Fett,” the Mando holding him blurted. “He’ll know what to do.”

-

Tor Vizsla had always been an ugly shabuir, Jaster reflected, but it was very satisfying to see just how kriffed up his face was after Jango had gotten through with him.

It was even better to see how many of his own clan shunned him. Of all the Vizslas in Jaster’s council room, only Pre stood within five feet of him. Pel, the current matriarch, refused to even look at this stain on her clan’s honor, wrinkled lips white with fury. She may not like the current Mand’alor, but she liked her ad even less. She’d chosen him as her successor personally, and he’d repaid her by grinding their clan’s honor into the dirt. The only reason she still held such sway was because of her lineage and her own unassailable honor, even if she seemed to forget the core tenet of “aliit ori’shya tal’din.” As far as Jaster was concerned, her newest choice of successor proved that her only criteria was blood, not worthiness.

The last time Jaster had seen him, Tor had been making a claim for his title. Jaster met him in single combat, as was the way, and when the hut’uun started losing he’d stuck Jaster with a hypo full of poison, forever dishonoring himself. Jaster had further secured his position by knocking him out of the ring even half-dead, and a fifteen-year-old Jango had immediately demanded a battle circle as recompense while Jaster was being rushed to the medbay. 

As the combatant with greater honor, Jango had the right to choose the weapon. He chose flamethrowers. Tor was further humiliated by Jango pinning him without using it even once, and then holding him down with it aimed at his face and turning it on.

Needless to say, Tor didn’t have a lot of hair left, even after it had 20 years to grow back.

“Mereel,” he said, a sneer pulling at his lips. _Too bad Jan’ika didn’t burn off his mouth, while he was at it._

“That’s Mand’alor to you, Tor,” Jaster said mildly, just to watch him snarl. “Pel, is there a reason you’ve allowed this aruetii back into my atmosphere or does he want a rematch?”

The room went dead silent at that. Even Tor, mad dog that he was, looked away. Pity. Jaster would’ve enjoyed taking his pound of flesh. 

“A-alor,” Pre, Pel’s bu’ad and successor stuttered. She closed her eyes at his blatant intimidation in front of every clan head in Keldabe. Speech impediments were nothing to be ashamed of, but everyone here had heard his long-winded blustering during meetings and the easy, cruel way he spoke to his subordinates. 

Jaster would almost feel bad for her if she weren't such a pain in the shebs. The Vizslas had been an illustrious clan under her leadership, but her refusal to follow meritocracy over geniture meant her subpar bui’tsad would run it into the ground within Jaster’s lifetime.

“My ba'vodu has come to collect his integrator.”

“And what integrator would that be?” Jaster said, glare sharpening. “I didn’t sign off on this.”

“Any Mando'ad has the right to sponsor, no matter your heretical thoughts on the matter,” Tor said smugly. Obviously no one had bothered to fill him in on Jaster’s most recent movements. “Unless you declare me dar’manda right now, there’s nothing you can do to keep me from him.”

“Don’t _tempt_ me,” Jaster snarled, but he knew he couldn’t. The Vizsla bloc’s political sway was the only reason he hadn’t already done so decades ago. Tor still had allies in Keldabe, and his buir was the staunchest, for all she could hardly stand to look at him. The only thing more powerful than a Mando’ad’s rage was their love, after all.

“I took the liberty of bringing him in, while my ba'vodu was busy elsewhere,” Pre said, which didn’t exactly narrow it down. The whelp took credit for his commandos’ triumphs often, and it didn’t surprise Jaster to hear that his numerous sponsorships were fraudulent, as well. No wonder the ge’hutuun ended up killing so many of them.

Unsurprisingly, the revelation had even the Vizslas' allies casting Pre looks of disgust. Politically, this situation could only mean good things for Jaster—and more importantly, for Jango, considering how eager the Vizslas were to have one of their own become the next Mand'alor. 

But this didn’t sit right with him. He knew how wily Tor could be. There had to be a reason he had come back now, and the integrator couldn’t be his only goal. Jaster had a bad feeling about this.

Tor’s lips curled into that maddening smirk, the one he wore whenever he thought he had the upper hand. “I’m here for my pet darjetii.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Most Jedi children experience sonder at a very early age. Anakin does not like feeling that other people have inner lives as rich as his own, and thus rejects it. He also has different privacy standards, as he can't let go of or shield his emotions like most Jedi learn to do fairly early on. (Plus he finds the mental arts boring and difficult and thus doesn't want to learn, because he's 11 and his lightsaber and astronavigation lessons are a LOT more fun.) That, coupled with his lack of knowledge of Jedi psychic etiquette and sheer power in the Force, means that mental communion with him is both difficult and painful, hence Obi-Wan's beskar mental shields and Anakin's social isolation in the temple. 
> 
> I genuinely don't believe that either the Jedi or Anakin are at fault, it's just that Anakin is 1) hella strong and 2) a bit of a cultural outsider in the temple, which is very insular with its younglings. So you have a perfect storm to ensure that Anakin feels like unwelcome and that other Jedi are hesitant to approach him, because Anakin finds their form of friendliness uncomfortable and lashes out painfully when it happens by basically overwhelming the other guy with his own sense of self. Imagine introducing yourself to someone new and they start screaming over everything you say directly in your ear. It's kinda like that.
> 
> koochoo: Huttese for idiot  
> udesii, ad'ika: calm down, little one  
> adat'juri: teacher  
> buir: parent  
> jetii'ke: padawans  
> ori'jetiise: bigger/older Jedi (plural)  
> Ani'ka: diminutive of Anakin, like Ani but even cuter :3  
> gedet'ye: please  
> Ven'alor: future Mand'alor  
> shabuir: a very filthy insult, though my personal translation is "motherfucker" considering the root words  
> ad: child (son, in Tor's case)  
> aliit ori'shya tal'din: family is more than blood (Mando proverb)  
> hut'uun: coward (worst possible insult)  
> Jan'ika: diminutive of Jango  
> aruetii: traitor/outsider  
> bu'ad: grandchild  
> shebs: ass  
> bui'tsad: biological bloodline  
> ba'vodu: uncle/aunt  
> dar'manda: a state of not being Mandalorian - not an outsider, but one who has lost his heritage, and so his identity and his soul - regarded with absolute dread by most traditionally-minded Mando'ade  
> ge'hutuun: bandit, villain, petty thief - can also mean a serious criminal you have no respect for  
> darjetii: Sith


End file.
